This is How it Was
by TourmalineTrue
Summary: Harry and Ginny's marriage is coming to an end and Harry must start a new phase of his life. And with new phases come new faces- or rather, old ones, long thought dead.
1. PrologueShangriblah

**Disclaimer: I do not, never have, and never will own Harry Potter. I am neither blonde, nor British, nor richer than Midas.**

**Author's Note & Prologue**

**AN: So here's my first Harry Potter fanfic and my best shot at a DH-compliant-with-epilogue Snarry. I've tried my darndest to keep everything canon, but please let me know if I've made a mistake anywhere. That said, next week JKR could very well decide to tell us, for instance, every last and least physical feature of Astoria Malfoy, as well as her genealogical history going back 500 years. So things might arise in the future to contradict what I've written now, no matter how conscientious I've been to include each (canon) menial and unnecessary detail I'm aware of about the fates of these characters. OK, rant over. **

**Also, I am not British, so if anybody who is would like to Brit-pick, go right ahead.**

**No Ginny-bashing here; I don't hate her, you understand (indeed, as bland a character she is, it's difficult to have any strong emotion toward her, positive or negative). I just hate her with Harry. I do not believe the basis for their relationship is healthy. It was hero worship on her side. On his, it was wanting to be an *official* member of the Weasley clan, feeling entitled to her (because she'd admired him for so long), her reminding him of his mother, and her not wanting to control him like everybody else in his life. Also, throw in the fact that he was a young man responding to a sexually attractive young woman.**

**Wow. Long-ass author's note. Ummm...on with the story!**

* * *

**Prologue**

…_The train began to move, and Harry walked alongside it, watching his son's thin face, already ablaze with excitement. Harry kept smiling and waving , even though it was like a little bereavement, watching his son glide away from him…_

_The last trace of steam evaporated in the autumn air. The train rounded a corner. Harry's hand was still raised in farewell._

"_He'll be alright," murmured Ginny._

_As Harry looked at her, he lowered his hand absentmindedly and touched the lightening scar on his forehead._

"_I know he will."_

_The scar had not pained Harry for nineteen years. All was well. _

Harry cleared his throat, which had suddenly become constricted. Dropping his hand from his scar, he offered it to Lily. She took it with a little smile and a sniffle, still jealous that she was not able go off to Hogwarts yet herself. Harry looked fondly upon her and pulled his other arm around his wife's shoulders. Nodding at Ron and Hermione, he asked,

"Well, fancy…doing something, since we're here together, or have you got plans?"

Hermione wiped her slightly teary eyes and stroked up and down on the arm of Ron's jacket. "Um…no, I…I've got to get to the office. You know I'm working on that big case and Brimblewick actually firecalled me this morning, said we might be on the edge of a significant breakthrough…" she trailed off.

Ron seized Hugo, and hoisted the giggling little boy onto his shoulders. "Sorry, mate, I can't go, either," he informed Harry apologetically. "'Mione thinks that since Rosie's off to school today, we should get Hugo started on his lessons, too. So since I happen to be off work, I get to play teacher." He made a face as though the prospect was not a happy one, but surprisingly, Hugo grinned.

"Daddy teaches me all _sorts_ of cool stuff!" he enthused, "And he's a lot less strict than Mummy."

Ron roared with laughter and Hermione harrumphed and told her husband, "Well, you know, you let him get out of hand, but I suppose there's no arguing whose the more…engaging instructor._ I _merely try to impart useful knowledge so that he'll eventually have a successful school career, whereas you demonstrate how to magically fling ice cream _all over the kitchen_."

Ron flushed, abashed, and Hugo shouted gleefully, "Yeah! That was fun!"

Harry, Ginny, and Lily all laughed together, and they bid the their relations goodbye, and passed back through the stone barrier into the non-Wizarding section of Kings Cross.

Walking hand in hand with his wife and daughter, Harry queried, "Well, what say I get my two best girls a proper breakfast? There was so much excitement this morning, I know nobody really got a chance to eat enough."

Lily gave her keen assent and began talking of French toast with lots of syrup. Ginny gave Harry's hand a squeeze, leaned in and murmured in his ear, "I feed my children." Her tone was disgruntled.

This was always a sore spot with her, although Harry had never really understood why.

"I know you do," he said quickly, hoping that his thoughts of _well, of course you feed them, what the hell is that supposed to mean? _didn't seep into his voice.

"That café just 'round the corner, then?" Ginny asked merrily, speaking louder now so that Lily could hear, too. "We drive past it all the time- we did this morning, in fact- but we've yet to try it. I think it looks inviting."

To Harry's surprise, sitting hunched up over a coffee of cup, alone at a corner table was Draco Malfoy.

Since when did Malfoys patronize Muggle establishments? And where was his wife, who had been with him on Platform 9 ¾ only half an hour ago?

The Malfoys were seldom seen in Britain these days, anyway. After the Second Wizarding War and Lucius had successfully wriggled out of a stint of in Azkaban, they'd retreated to Malfoy Manor and turned virtual recluses, their society no longer sought after. Draco, Harry knew, had not returned to Hogwarts to complete his seventh year, but had taken on an apprenticeship at Mr. Greengrass's store. A few years later, he married the Greengrasses' younger daughter, Astoria, and then Draco, his new wife, and his parents went abroad. Two years after that, Harry recalled hearing reports of Narcissa Malfoy's death in Paris.

Today was the first time in a very long time, to his knowledge, that any of the surviving members of the Malfoy clan had set foot in Wizarding England.

He, Ginny, and Lily claimed a table at the front of the diner, near one of the big front windows.

The waitress arrived with their menus, and they took awhile making up their minds with them (that is, Lily did. She being one of those especially indecisive children who, seeing as they have a difficult time of it making up their minds which shoe to put on first in the morning, can waffle practically for yonks over something as critical as what to eat). The rather patient waitress returned for the fifth time and as soon as they'd finally placed their orders, Harry excused himself to go to the loo. As he stood from the booth, Ginny gave him a knowing look.

He strode to the back of the restaurant, bypassing Draco's spot and not giving it a sideways glance, en route to the bathroom. It was on the way back that he came to a fixed halt next to the table where the man who had formerly been his least favorite schoolmate sat.

Harry didn't see Draco make the slightest move to look up from his coffee, but the blonde was aware of his presence nonetheless.

"Potter."

"Malfoy."

Draco lifted just his eyes and not his head to take in Harry loitering beside his table. They were tired-looking; even Malfoys went through the same thing that Harry had gone through last night and this morning, in sending a child off to Hogwarts. Especially for the first time.

"Can I help you, Potter?" Draco's voice had a bit of a clipped quality to it, but it was mainly neutral, not harsh.

"Er- how are you?" It was really all Harry could think of to say, pathetic though it was. He wasn't even really clear on what had compelled him to come and speak to Draco. He studied him as he sat there; the Slytherin was still all pale skin and sharp-edged angles, the only obvious curve in sight being the surprisingly round top of his skull, exposed by the process of premature balding. That chin still looked like it could cut glass. Draco's patrician features- the set of them still haughty, even when apparently at ease- seemed never to have aged a day. It was almost like a time-warp. But Harry also saw Draco for what he- possibly more than anything- was at present: a harried man in his mid-30's, with a wife and child, a job, responsibilities. Even in clothing as finely cut and expensive as it ever was, he looked less pampered now.

Draco finally raised his head. "Peachy," he drawled, picking up his coffee and sipping at it. When it must have become apparent to the fair-haired, pointy-chinned man that Harry was not going to advance this quasi-conversation further, he placed his cup to one side and inquired, sounding faintly miffed, but also resigned to going through the pleasantries, "And yourself?" His eyebrows pulled down.

"Uh, good, good. Yeah," replied Harry. He still didn't know what was keeping him rooted to the spot. "So…where's the missus?" Just harmless small talk.

"Back at our hotel, I should suspect." Another awkward silence fell upon them as the two former nemeses simply stared at one another before Draco loosened an exasperated little noise, waving a pale hand about slightly in impatience. "Merlin's sake, Potter, can't a man enjoy his latte in peace?"

Mouth speaking before the mind had time to process the words, Harry said, "You don't look as though you're enjoying it." And then he felt curiously guilty, like he had infringed upon something more than just Draco's right to peacefully drink his latte.

Draco frowned at him. He abruptly got to his feet, his hands moving toward the collar of his ebony coat, seemingly trying to turn the collar up even more, although it was already as high up around his neck as it could go. "So I'm not," he retorted, grey eyes suddenly snapping with a touch of the old acrimony. "Listen up, _Auror Potter_," Draco went on sneeringly. "There's no law breaking going on here, nothing shady afoot. I don't know what it is you're playing at, but I didn't come here to meet any neo-Death Eater type characters or whatever you think," he ended arrogantly.

He then turned and walked out of the café, leaving Harry surprised behind him. Whatever his reason had been for approaching Malfoy, it truly hadn't been the one Draco had accused of…had it? Harry bore Draco no ill-feeling anymore, he'd merely been curious as to how his life had been going in the interim since their last meeting.

Glancing back toward his own table, he saw Ginny shoot him a questioning look, and also that his food had arrived. So he went to rejoin his family.

What Harry didn't see was Draco meeting a figure outside of the café, with its hood pulled completely over its head, as tightly as possible, under the influence of a Glamour charm though this mysterious person was. A few words were exchanged between them before Draco and the figure ducked surreptitiously around the corner, to Apparate quickly away.

* * *

**Chapter 1: Shangri-Blah**

Harry stepped out of the Floo into the cozy sitting room of Godric's Hallow, where he lived with Ginny and the children. It was near Christmas time two years later, and said children would, in a few days time, be home for the holidays. Harry returned from another day at the Auror Office to find his wife immersed in decorating the room with all matter of festive frippery. She looked toward her husband, wand poised in her hand as she used it to coax some garland to wrap itself around the stairway banister, and greeted him with a grin.

"Hello, love," she said cheerily, "How was your day?"

Harry rolled his eyes and sank into a nearby plush armchair. "Much the same as it always is," he answered blandly. "Gin, is there any tea?"

He saw the corner of Ginny's mouth twitch as, just for the tiniest second, her smile faltered. For about the past month, Ginny had pretty much been wearing what Harry referred to (in his own mind) as her 'Perma-smile'. And it really was nearly permanent: case in point, it was now back on her face full force. "Not made," she replied blithely, "But yes, of course there's tea." She turned her attention back to her decorating.

"Well," said Harry, "would you mind putting on the kettle for me? I'm beat."

She whipped her head around to look at him again. The Perma-smile was still there, but before it had been toothy, and this time, Ginny's lips were closed tight over her pearly whites. "Harry...I'm busy at the moment, as you can see. You're a grown wizard; I should think you fully capable of making your own tea."

Harry felt the first small burst of irritation within himself. "I've been at work all day, Gin. I'm tired."

"Oh!" Ginny gave what was, in all actuality, quite a frightening, high-pitched peal of laughter. It was frightening, mainly, because someone unacquainted with it would be at loss to determine whether it was mocking or genuine. The first time Harry'd ever heard it, he almost jumped out of his skin. If someone had told him then that this sound was quite characteristic of Ginny when she was frustrated...well, he could imagined how he'd have felt. "I didn't realize- you're _tired_, Harry? I was under the impression- probably because it's what _you've_ been saying for Merlin knows how long- that your job is extremely boring. Couldn't have worn yourself out too badly then, huh?"

The small burst of irritation spread its bitter poison throughout Harry's system and encouraged the birth of another, more substantial internal eruption of anger. "Sometimes being bored makes you more tired than anything!" he shouted, "And anyway, what have you been doing around here all day? Whatever you want!"

The Perma-smile was now vanished completely, which gave Harry an unreasonable dose of relief. "_I,_" Ginny said huffily, "have been putting up Christmas decorations, trying to inject some life and color into this place, to make it ready for _our_ _children_ when they arrive home in five days."

"Well, I'd say you've overdone it," Harry said, gazing around with what he hoped was a nasty expression, and crinkling his nose for effect. "You've gone about as mad with the Christmas decorations as Umbridge did with kittens and the colour pink."

His wife looked infuriated. "_You_ may not appreciate it, Harry Potter, but since when do you appreciate anything I do? I'm sure that James, Al, and Lily will feel differently, however. I can't wait to see the joy on their sweet little faces when they walk into the room!"

"Well, _Ginevra Potter_, I don't know why we're arguing, all I did was ask you for some tea! Apparently you do so much for me, but you can't even get your hardworking husband a cuppa!"

"I do! I do do a lot for you!" cried Ginny, her eyes blazing, throwing her hands into the air, "And I'll do this, too!" With that, she stomped off to the kitchen.

Harry heaved a weighty sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose to ward away a burgeoning headache. He propped his elbows up on his knees and leaning forward, rested his forehead against his clasped hands as the warmth from the nearby fire washed over him. Perhaps five minutes passed with him staying in that position when a light cough at his elbow made him look up.

"Here's your tea." Ginny graced him with a more subdued and gentler version of her Perma-smile. She had obviously defused fairly quickly in the kitchen. Harry uttered his 'thank yous' and took the cup from her. She sat on the arm of his chair. He took a swallow of tea, then levitated it off to the side, where it hovered.

Ginny reached under Harry's chin, tipped it up, and leaning in, kissed him. Softly at first, her lips exacting a light-pressure-and-release motion. Then as Harry returned the kiss, it became one of intent on Ginny's side, firmly gripping the front of Harry's robes while she pushed her tongue past his lips and rooted around his mouth.

When they pulled apart, her eyes held a hungry expression, her mouth quirked up slyly. She slid slowly from her perch on the arm of the chair and walked back to the box of Christmas decorations, swishing her still-cute butt as she went.

He knew that expression, had seen it often enough on her face as of late, and he exhaled heavily, resignedly. She would want sex later.

It was like they were in the earlier phases of their relationship again. Since Lily had gone off to Hogwarts, all of a sudden Ginny wanted sex three times a week. They'd long since stopped doing it three times a week. In recent years, it was more like once or twice a month plus holidays.

Harry wondered what the least was he could get away with doing tonight in the physical department. Ginny's newly rediscovered edacious libido was wearing him out, and its origins were truly unaccounted for. He wondered that he shouldn't be enjoying his wife's friskiness; in several marriages, didn't the woman eventually lose interest in sex? No doubt there were countless man who'd consider themselves unbelievably lucky to have a wife like his. And Harry _did_ feel lucky to have her- as beautiful, smart, and caring as she was. But...his desire for her had waned, it seemed.

Oh, he didn't desire anybody _else. _Ginny was the first and only woman he'd ever slept with, and he was certain the only one he ever would. It was just that Harry'd had a hard time feeling amorous at all since the novelty of lovemaking had worn off years ago. He, happily, could still get it up when required, that wasn't the problem. He'd just merely stopped seeing what the big deal about sex was. In some ways, he felt like a vaguely asexual being.

That didn't even bother him, exactly. He figured that was the way it was supposed to be. The state of being madly in love with one another giving way to a more quiet, companionable sort of mutual appreciation. Once the bloom had gone off the rose called infatuation, it had been, for many years, like going into business- a child farming business- with a very good friend. And for all that he'd stopped seeing Ginny as the romantic heroine of his youth, he loved his wife dearly.

Harry hadn't once doubted that this marriage was forever.

_To be continued…_

**I could ask you to be gentle, but I'd rather you be honest. Above all, just please review. I'm ravenous for reviews, they are my lifeblood!**

**Note: The italicized part of the prologue is obviously taken directly from the epilogue of **_**Deathly Hallows.**_


	2. Communications

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor anything connected with it. If I was JKR, this story wouldn't be FANfiction. Which it is.**

**A big thank you to all who reviewed, or added this to your favs or alert list! :D **

**Chapter Two: Communications**

The years since his wife's demise had not been kind to Lucius Malfoy. It was not grief that ate away at him, make no mistake, that left him looking like a sunken, withered shell of his former self. His attachment to his lady hadn't been that deep. It failed to inspire a misery-induced malady, with all the excruciating, insidious emotional pain turned physical at the prospect of living his remaining years without her, so his body responded to the torment by ensuring they would not be many. Though, her absence undeniably was the impetus for his slide into the point of no return. Life after the Second Wizarding war, you see, had been better than the Malfoys deserved (not in Lucius's opinion, of course), but not really good. And when Narcissa was alive, she at least had always known how to somewhat appease her incorrigible and fastidious husband.

It came as no surprise to Lucius that the fact that theirs was old money had been their salvation. The Malfoys' status as one of the most ancient families in the Wizarding World meant that they were likewise one of the most well-connected. Hell, the only reason they'd been able to negotiate a deal with the Ministry and keep themselves out of Azkaban was because they'd been able to reach some powerful connections outside of Britain. In the chaos that had ensued after the fall of the Dark Lord, they'd managed to flee unseen from Hogwarts and reach Hogsmeade and Apparate from there.

But still the Malfoys found they must pay the price for supporting the wrong side in the war (that is, the _losing_ side). When they'd tried to return to England, they had been shunned and forced to hole up in their manor alone. At last they'd given in and moved to Paris, but as it turned out, they had needed all the connections they could get, for even some of their foreign acquaintance wanted to have little or nothing to do with the disgraced Malfoys.

But their Galleons- they still had rather a lot of those, thank Merlin- were what had secured Lucius luxurious quarters in an affluent and stylish district of Paris, if nothing else.

Lucius was lying on a sofa in his sumptuously appointed sitting room, surrounded by a nest of pillows. It was clear that everything in the place was arranged deliberately for his comfort. He had his wand handy on a side table, a house-elf in the kitchen, and the mirror on the wall facing him had been taken down, so he wasn't made to look at his grey, waxy complexion, and brittle hair.

Just then, his Floo flared to life. Amidst his pillows, Lucius shifted his head slightly against the velvet-covered one upon which it happened to rest, craning his neck a bit to get a better view of his fireplace. From out of the green flames stepped his son, Draco Malfoy.

"I've brought more pain-numbing potion, Father," Draco said. He fished around in the bag he wore swung over one shoulder and retrieved a bottle of aquamarine-coloured liquid.

Lucius heaved a sigh and extended an eager hand to take the potion from his son, smiling wryly. "Ah, it's times like these I really appreciate having saved that man's life." He unstopped the bottle and lifted it. It glinted in the pale rays of the sun filtering in around the edges of the thick, drawn curtains for a few seconds; then, as Draco watched, he downed the entire contents in one gulp.

Draco's eyes went round. He regarded his father, appalled. "That was supposed to be a week's worth of potion."

Lucius smacked his lips. He placed the empty bottle on the little table nearby, lay back on the sofa, and stretched indolently. "I suffer cruelly, son."

"Well," Draco muttered dryly, "Not for long, I imagine. I expect you'll soon be at utter peace and free from pain for all eternity if you keep up _that_ pace."

His father merely arched an aristocratic eyebrow. He did not take offense; nor did he contradict his son. He didn't point out that he was dying anyway, nor did he note that wherever _he_ was going after death was unlikely to be forever peaceful and painless.

Draco continued to frown at him. "Father, I've two more bottles on me. I am not coming back for another two weeks. You've already shortchanged yourself; as it is you will either have to go a whole seven days with nothing, or else take less than the recommended daily dosage from the other bottles to make the potion stretch out." He again plunged his hand into his pack and withdrew the two promised bottles and left them on the table beside their drained counterpart.

Even now the concoction he'd ingested had taken effect- Lucius seemed more alert and his eyes less murky. He pushed himself to sit up a bit, leant on his forearms. An expression of dull anger was suffusing his formerly impassive face.

"I don't know," he began, "when you became such a prideful, impertinent little _prick_, Draco."

In response he received a smirk and a shrug. "I have always been. And anyway, _Father,_" Draco laid a delicate stress on that man's title, "Pride is something to be congratulated. It was you who taught me that."

"But not when used against _me_," Lucius seethed, "And I have not been accustomed to you being impertinent toward _me_."

It was true enough. Even after the war...Draco's answer to his changed opinion of his father had been increased distance and indifference. He had never been outwardly rude. But was he currently being so, really?

Draco simply shook his head. "Promise me that you'll go easy on the pain-numbing potions," he said quietly, grabbing a handful of Floo powder and stepping back toward the fireplace.

Malfoy, Sr. did not promise but sank down dispassionately against the pillows on the sofa. He airily waved a hand in his son's general direction. "You're leaving then, are you?"

"Yes," Draco affirmed, approaching the Floo. Before he gave the Floo powder a toss and cried out the name of Malfoy Manor, he turned to look at his father.

"Assuming you're still alive the first Friday of next month, I'll visit again and bring you more potion."

* * *

Harry and Ginny were meeting Ron and Hermione for dinner. The latter pair had already Apparated outside the restaurant where they'd all agreed to dine when the Potters showed up. Ginny hugged her brother, Hermione hugged Harry, and then the two women hugged each other as their husbands just stood by, grinning.

"Blimey!" Ron remarked, "you'd think we hadn't seen one another in ages when really it's only been a few weeks -not to mention me and Harry see each other every day at work. And you know we'll all be meeting up for Christmas, yeah, just like always?"

"Of course we know, Ron," Hermione said stiffly, though her eyes were sparkling, "But it's so agreeable just to be able for the four of us to get together and have a nice adult dinner, isn't it?" She looked at Ginny, who smiled in reply.

"I couldn't agree with you more; having the kids around ruins the whole damn thing," joked Ron, prompting Mrs. Granger-Weasley to smack him on the arm.

"That's not what I meant and you know it!"

Harry and Ginny laughed. When Ron was finished rubbing his arm he took his wife's hand and led her into the restaurant.

Harry offered his arm to Ginny. "Shall we?"

She took it. "Aren't we gallant this evening?" she cooed, and the couple followed their friends inside, Harry preparing to maybe, actually, enjoy himself for once tonight.

They got, per usual, a table immediately and also the best, just one of the numerous perks afforded to Harry that he by no means exploited, but had at least learned to put up with, and occasionally appreciate.

Spotting Ron examining the menu, Harry realized that he himself was very hungry, too. They had reached the table and he hastened to sit down. Ginny continued to stand behind her chair. She cleared her throat.

When Harry glanced up at her, she observed dryly, "Well, maybe not _so_ gallant." She sat at last.

Harry turned again to the menu- _roast beef, lamb chops, steak_..._what was she talking about?_ It occurred to him suddenly that she had wanted him to pull out her chair. He looked quickly to where she sat at his side and her eyes were on him, but there was no trace of anger in them, and she was wearing her Perma-smile so he simply smiled back. He made to place his hand over hers on the table, but was thwarted when she moved her hand to pick up her menu.

"_Everything_ sounds good," Ron said musingly, and then swooped upon the breadbasket the waiter was bringing over.

Hermione snorted. Carefully studying her own menu, she commented, "I think I'll just have something light. A decade later and I still haven't lost all the weight I gained with Hugo."

"You're mental, 'Mione," stated Ron, through a mouthful of bread, "You have a gorgeous body and you know it."

His wife blushed crimson and raised her eyebrows at Ginny. Ginny pulled a disgusted face.

"Ugh. Smooth, big brother."

At length they had all ordered and as the women began to chitchat together, Ron tried to engage Harry on the subject of work.

Harry groaned and took a sip of water. "I never thought you'd be the type to take the office home with you, Ron."

"Just making conversation, mate."

"Could you please not make it about work, though? I get more than enough of that while I'm there."

Ron regarded him quizzically, as though sensing something in Harry's demeanor or tone that told him that this was not your average griping-about-your job remark. "Hey, anything the matter, Harry?"

Harry shook his head. "It's- I…" He made a sort of helpless motion with his hand and broke off, frustrated. He took a breath and started over. "Listen, I guess I'm a little burned out of being an Auror."

"But that's all you ever wanted to be- an Auror," Ron pointed out confusedly.

"Yeah, I know it was," Harry said, "But…it hasn't been like I expected it to be. Or maybe it was in the beginning, but since I'm no longer out in the field, it's become tedious. To me, anyway. Ron…" he spoke anxiously now, his voice a fraction above a whisper, "are you satisfied at work? Do you like being at the Auror Office, literally _at the Auror Office_, day in and day out? Don't you miss being where the action is?"

Ron guffawed. "Wait a sec, mate, you saying you want to be demoted? I don't know if Kingsley'll go along with it, even if you are our Savior…"

"You know I don't like being called that," Harry interjected, grimacing, "And that's not what I'm saying. I'd just like to feel like I'm making a difference again."

His friend frowned, perhaps taking offense. After all, Harry disparagement of his own job was also inexorably a swipe at Ron's. "You don't think you are- _we are-_ anymore? Because if they sent you back out into the field, Harry, you wouldn't even have much to do. That's because of what we're accomplishing now. It's the decisions we've made that's got the crime rate down so low."

"Ron, I _know_ that we do important work," Harry clarified patiently. "There's no disputing that. And I wouldn't _want _to go back into the field: I've been there, done that already. I'm just bored with being stuck behind a desk all day."

"What does Ginny think about all this?"

Harry shrugged.

"You mean you haven't talked to her about it?"

Harry fidgeted, feeling somewhat defensive, though he didn't know why. "I mean, well, obviously, she's aware that I'm not entirely happy…" He stopped. Something about those words, something about those words coming out of his mouth, stopped him. A strange feeling washed over him. Pushing through it, he continued, "…at work. But she doesn't know that I'm seriously considering quitting."

Ron shook his head. "You'll have to talk to her about it before you decide anything, of course."

"Of course."

He grinned and winked at Harry. "Hey, I just gotta make sure you're taking proper care of my baby sister."

"Right. Cheers." Harry toasted him with his water glass and then noticed that Ginny was looking at them.

Brow knitted, she asked of her husband, "What will you have to talk to me about, Harry?"

He cast about for a purpose.

"Um, your brother's just asked us and the kids to Cornwall for New Year."

He wasn't taking liberties, either- impulsively inviting himself and his brood to Hermione's parents' home to cover up what he had been talking about with Ron. No, the offer _had, _in reality, been extended to him by his ginger-haired best mate, albeit at least a week ago. For some reason, Harry'd just never gotten around to discussing it with Ginny.

Post-war, and after Hermione had restored her mum and dad's memories, the Grangers had remained some time still in Australia with their daughter (plus Ron, who had tagged along, flatly refusing to be separated from his then-new girlfriend) and had fallen in love with the country- as themselves, instead of Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins. It had become a bit of a tradition every winter for Ron, Hermione, and their children to go to visit the Grangers on December 23rd and swap Christmas gifts with them then. Mr. and Mrs. Granger would depart the next day for their Holiday in Australia, leaving their daughter and her family to stay in the house and enjoy a Christmas in the country- except for the few hours the Weasley-Grangers Flooed in to spend at Arthur and Molly's on Christmas Day. (The Cornwall house had been linked up to the Floo network)

Ron and Hermione ordinarily stayed at Cornwall through the New Year, and some years the Potter family would join them there.

"Oh. Well, that might be a fun idea. We'll have to wait and see."

The food was brought then, and for awhile there were only the sounds of people eating, the clink of silverware on china, someone sipping from their drink, a glass being set down on the table.

"Well, I've got a piece of news," Hermione said presently. "And I just heard it at the office before we came here, so Ron doesn't even know yet."

They all looked at her.

"The Malfoys are back in Britain," she informed them.

Ron rolled his eyes and said around the large bite of guinea fowl in his mouth, "Who cares about that?"

Harry didn't really care himself, but he wished to keep everybody talking and so encouraged her, "What are they back for, Hermione?"

Mrs. Granger-Weasley turned her attention to Harry after shooting her spouse a dirty look for talking with his mouth full.

"I've no idea," she began. "But it's Draco and his wife, I meant. Malfoy, Sr. remains abroad. There are rumors he's quite ill, you know- I can't say I'm too sorry about that. Anyway, this man who works in my department, Mortimer Caulfield - do you know him, Harry?"

Harry indicated that he did not.

Hermione went on, "He knows the family a little and..."

"Of course," Ron jeered, "They always will have their connections inside the Ministry, won't they, no matter how hard we've worked to clean up the place!"

Ginny nodded her emphatic assent.

"Anyway, Mortimer said that Draco had been in applying for a job in the Department of Magical Transport. Just an entry-level position."

The meal ended soon afterward. The women exited the restaurant a couple meters ahead of their husbands while Ron and Harry lagged behind, Ron in the process of telling his best mate and brother-in-law a long-winded joke he'd recently heard from George:

"So the very handsome wizard says, 'I don't know about you, but I stepped on a puffskein.' Get it? _Hahaha."_

"_Ron!" _Hermione, standing a little ways from them down the pavement, called to him in a tone that plainly communicated that they had to get going.

"See ya, mate," Ron muttered with a grin, waving goodbye to Harry.

Ron walked over to Hermione and they exchanged a few words. Just from her facial expressions, Harry could tell that she was chiding him about something. Ron responded to this by placing his hands on Hermione's hips, pulling him to her, and kissing her solidly on the lips. After a moment, she reached up and wrapped her arms about her spouse's neck, from the look of it giving him back all his kiss.

Harry glanced about for Ginny, but he didn't see her right way. When his eyes finally landed on her, he saw that she was standing halfway up the block under a streetlight. Harry approached her and laid a hand on her shoulder, preparing to Apparate them home, but tarried when he heard her say, in a wistful type of voice as she was looking at her brother and Hermione,

"I can't remember the last time you initiated a kiss with me when you weren't getting ready to head off to work."

Harry stared woodenly at her, surprised. That couldn't really be true, could it? That he never kissed Ginny of his own volition anymore unless he was about to go into the office? He opened his mouth to say something (what, he hardly knew, but then that'd never stopped him before), but his wife quickly took his arm, threaded it through her own, and Apparated them back to Godric's Hollow.

_To be continued…_

**A/N: My OC, Mortimer Caulfield, is named after Holden Caulfield, of J.D. Sallinger's immortal **_**Catcher in the Rye. **_**R.I.P., Mr. Sallinger.**

**The tail end of the joke that Ron tells Harry is based on the punch line of the joke "stepped on a duck". If you've never heard this joke and would like to, I'd be happy to tell it to you. :)**

**Please Review!**


	3. The Lady of the Manor

**Disclaimer: Nothing in the Harry Potter franchise is mine and I do not gain monetarily from writing this fan fiction. The only thing I gain is experience as a writer, and some cheap entertainment.**

**Starting with this chapter, I owe a debt of gratitude to my lovely Britpicker, Flanclanman, who was kind enough to scan this story for things that were not Britishly accurate and suggest modifications. You're so great, my dear, and I thank you again and wish you love, peace, and bonbons, everything good! XD**

**Chapter 3: The Lady of the Manor **

Christmas came and went. It had been a nice little family holiday, the children arriving home full of all the stories and updates they'd been unable to fit in their letters about what was going on with them at Hogwarts, bubbling over with excitement about the holidays, their fast, lively chatter indicative that they were full of the sense of freedom children are swelled with when on break from school. They breathed life into the house, and Harry rejoiced: Godric's Hollow had been too quiet without them.

His little Lily had been elated with the top-notch new potion set she received, and started talking about how Professor Slughorn had already told her that she was destined for 'the shelf'. James had had a jaded reaction to this, commenting in an impatient, fairly smug voice, "He said the same thing to Al and me as well. Because we're Potters." Harry had frowned a little as he reminded his eldest not to let that go to his head, and never to trade on his name. James was a good kid, but he seemingly got to be a bigger and bigger handful every year. Al had asked for a toad for Christmas, to take back to school with him, and Harry'd had to prevent James (who'd been given a new broom for Christmas, the latest model) teasing him about it, and declaring that a toad was a stupid pet.

It was a few days after the children had gone back to school that the Potters were called upon to attend the _Prophet's _grandcharity gala at the Ministry, benefiting H.O.M.E. the _House for Orphans who are of Magic Endowed. _They'd each received an invitation, Ginny being a Quidditch reporter for the _Prophet_, and Harry being, well, _Harry. _Both of them had gotten a 'plus one' as well, and so either of them invited one half of the Weasley-Granger couple to be their guest. Alas, Ron and Hermione declined, saying they were opting for a quiet night in that evening.

Harry feigned enviousness of their plans, but it occurred to him that the idea of him and Ginny simply sitting at home, twiddling their thumbs and staring at each other all night did not sound like a preferable alternative to even the tedium the _Prophet _gala promised. Aside from making his requisite appearance at the annual celebration Hogwarts held in commemoration of the fall of the Dark Lord, Harry wasn't much one for public soirees, unless it was some work-related Ministry event. A celebrity by default from the time Voldemort had killed his parents and bestowed a lightning bolt scar upon Harry's forehead before apparently vanishing for good (when really he'd created another Horcrux that night), and a bona fide hero to all when he actually did, by his own hand, defeat the dark wizard for good, Harry was indubitably a very public figure. And while he couldn't help that, he really did feel that even public figures deserved a private life. He had only ever wanted to be quiet, settled…_normal_, and he tried to put himself out there as an icon of the Wizarding World as seldom as possible.

However, this was for charity, and it was more Ginny's fete than his. Not that he ever really tried to attract attention to himself, but tonight he would make a special point of keeping the focus chiefly on her. There were times, Harry knew, though she didn't say it and was a real good sport about it, that she tired of always being merely the beautiful, dutiful wife of The Boy Who Lived Twice. He was sure that that was something she missed from her Harpies glory days- being recognized for her own accomplishments. And as increasingly discouraged as Harry was growing with his own job as Head Auror, he had a sneaking suspicion that every time Ginny had to write about some amazing goal that somebody else had scored, she was wishing it was her.

Ginny was incandescent that night in a simple, copper-colored gown that set off her red hair and brown eyes and looked lovely against the flawless ivory shoulders that were revealed by the gown's sleeveless design. She held onto Harry's arm as they meandered around the ballroom, saying hello to various shared acquaintance and Ginny's fellow _Prophet_ scribes.

After they had been there a couple hours, Harry nabbed a last miniature mushroom pie hors d'oeuvre from one of the trays spelled to orbit the room, suspended in midair about four and a half feet off the ground, intending on polishing it off and then asking Ginny if she was ready to call it a night, when he turned to her and saw her discreetly pointing ahead of them,

"Harry, do you know her?"

"Hm? Know who?"

A woman was moving toward them. Clad in an elaborate scarlet floor-grazing dress, she was obviously expecting. She wore her dark, wavy hair half up, and the portion that she'd let flow free hung- she turned for a moment when someone called something to her in French, giving Harry a view of her back, bare in her gown- past the bottom of her shoulder blades. Then she spun on her heel again and continued in Harry and Ginny's direction. Within moments she stood in front of them, fixing a pair of happily speculative purplish-blue eyes on Harry.

"Ah, I've been looking everywhere for you," she stated.

It was most curious- none of her features, taken as separate pieces, were quite right: her jaw line was rather too square and masculine, her mouth too wide, her nose a touch too long, and her eyes small and sharp. Yet they combined to produce a visage that was- if not conventionally beautiful- distinctly appealing nonetheless. She was a noble-looking woman, with her own brand of magnetism.

"Have you?" said Ginny, friendly and slightly quizzical, and offered a hand. "Well, you've found us."

The woman shifted her gaze to Ginny, took her hand, pressed it, and returned her smile.

"Mrs. Ginevra Potter."

"Yes?" Ginny queried, bemused. "Are you a fan of my article?"

"Oh!" cried she, "No! That's right, you _are_ a correspondent for the _Prophet_, aren't you? No, indeed- I don't care much for Quidditch, I'm afraid, barely understand the rules…which does annoy my husband on occasion, he played at Hogwarts, you know."

"I do?" laughed Ginny, casting a sidelong glance at Harry, "Who is your husband?"

"Draco Malfoy. He was your husband's year. And I was a year behind your own, Mrs. Potter."

So _that_ was who they were dealing with!

_Draco Malfoy. He was in your husband's year. _As if they needed being told, Harry thought, with a mental eye roll. What was this woman about, anyway, coming to speak to them? Harry might, within himself, have made peace with Draco, but whilst a formal extension of the olive branch wouldn't be refused, an offer of, Merlin forbid, _friendship_ certainly must be.

"Ah." Ginny was less sociable now, "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Malfoy."

"Please. Call me Astoria." She leveled her gaze at Harry once more. The orchestra was striking up a new tune, a waltz. "I really know next to nobody here, so my dance card has many shameful blank spaces. Perhaps, Mr. Potter, you would-" she trailed off, the invitation unspoken, but obvious.

Harry looked at her with an expression that showed just how deeply taken aback he was, but said nothing, as he experienced a sort of blip in his brain. Even as open and artless a person he was (and thus not always prepared to wheel out with ease a poised and courteous response to any given social situation), he would have thought by now, when he was almost forty, that he was possessed of sufficient social graces to politely decline a request to share a dance. He couldn't come up with an excuse quickly enough, however, and the next thing he knew, he found himself moving across the dance floor, one hand clasping that of Astoria Malfoy's, the other situated lightly at her waist. As he whisked across the floor with his surprising partner, he was struck by her graceful carriage in dancing while so heavily pregnant. Even in her delicate state, she was as light on her feet and agile as his athletic Ginny.

After a moment, Harry ventured, "You're wearing the wrong color, aren't you?"

It was extremely doubtful that she didn't take his true meaning, however she smiled at him guilelessly. "You do not think that red flatters my complexion? Well, I must remark, Mr. Potter, on the indelicacy of alluding to it. Though, if that _is _your opinion, I am sorry to fall short of making a favorable impression."

Harry gawked at her. Was _Draco-sodding-Malfoy's wife _really standing in his arms just now _flirting_ with him_?_

He coughed. "Er…I was only saying that it's a rather Gryffindor color for you."

"Ah, and that's rather childish of you! Besides, what makes you suppose I _wasn't _in Gryffindor?" Her tone was completely teasing; there was not a trace of ire in her voice.

"Well…were you?"

She chuckled. "No. Slytherin. You brave lions do not have a monopoly on the color red." She lifted an elegant brow. "Well, are you enjoying the evening's festivities, then?"

"I've been to worse," Harry answered honestly. He thought with a inner shudder of aversion to photographers and flashbulbs, blubbing matrons wringing his hand and sobbing out their thanks to him for destroying He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, ambitious young spell craft scholars trying to wrangle him into very serious discussions about dueling theory, and giggling young maidens whispering together behind their hands and ogling him. "And yourself?"

"As you can probably guess, we go to few events of this nature. So far as this one goes-" Astoria heaved a put-upon sigh. "_I _have been bored to tears all evening. Of course, then I met you. Now I'm having a fine time." She smiled charmingly again: oh yes it was charming, even if it did come off a trifle oily, most likely because there was that about her that suggested she was fully aware of her slight unctuousness.

"Is Malf- I mean, Dra- is your husband here tonight as well?"

"No, he had a prior engagement."

Harry schooled his face not to betray the relief he felt at that.

This was to be all the conversation they were to have, as the music faded out to the sound of polite applause with the final draw of a bow upon violin strings and the partners began to depart the dance floor.

"I thank you for a lovely dance," Astoria expressed with a pleasant smile, as Harry led her away from the dance floor, feeling awkward keeping her soft, pale, long-fingered hand in his. He left her off to the side of a rather hideously ornate ice sculpture of a hippogriff and unicorn nuzzling each other's necks. He walked away with a small shake of the head at the surreal turn the evening had taken.

* * *

Draco had just returned from another delivery of pain potions to his father.

The Floo deposited him in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor. The house had been opened up again last November, after being shut up for more than ten years. Some of the rooms were still not in use, as there was considerable cleaning and sorting through various artifacts, knick knacks, and memorabilia, and the extermination of many doxies to care of.

He went searching for his wife and found Astoria in the library, curled up on the sofa, reading a book. Her brown hair cascaded the better way down her back and was so dark that it almost matched the black velvet dressing gown wrapped around her body. She was always good at sensing the presence of others; this time was no different as she felt his entrance into the room and looked up.

"Darling," she greeted him. He crossed the room to stand beside her, bent over her and began rhythmically stroking her hair.

"How is your father?" she queried.

"The same. It's absolutely hopeless you know- no one can do a thing for him except give him something to ease the pain." He spoke with a careful air of calm reconciliation.

She raised her eyes to his. "Is his discomfort very great? Has it increased since the last time you saw him?"

Draco sighed before answering her reluctantly. He did not want to talk about his father. He wanted to hear about the _Prophet's _gala at the Ministry. He wanted Astoria to distract him.

"Well, you'll remember the Healers said that the progression of the disease would be slow. I cannot believe he suffers as much as he claims to."

Astoria closed her book, fastening a concerned yet shrewd stare on him. He tried to assume a blasé air as he turned away, dropping his hand and ceasing passing it over her hair. Her eyes were as penetrating as if she was performing Legilimency on him. It would have been better if she had been, Draco decided sourly. He would know how to block her out then. (Although he tried never to Occlude with her, since it made her angry).

"And you?"

He blinked at her as though uncomprehending and said a bit testily, "And me? What about me? _I _am not sick."

His wife gave a little murmur that may have been acquiescence, or skepticism, there was no telling. She often made these slight, noncommittal noises whose meaning Draco was unable to decipher, and in his mind it was one of her most vexing qualities.

"We must consider the possibility that those French Medi-wizards didn't get it exactly right. I did say all along, my dear, that he should have been examined by St. Mungo's. Perhaps you ought to believe your father, his symptoms might be more extreme than you imagine. If his health is deteriorating at a faster pace than we were told was typical of his disease, than we should consider getting him to Britain, or seeing if a Medi-wizard from St. Mungo's will go abroad for a house call."

Draco turned around with a look on his face that was a tad pinched as he cried, "I do not wish to discuss this further!" He was fully conscious that he sounded whiny. He grimaced. "How was your party, Astoria?"

"Oh. Well…" She set her book to the side and stretched languidly. "Everything went off without a hitch. I rather wish it hadn't. A tedious evening. Made all the more so by the frumpy clothing nearly all of the guests showed up in. Disgraceful, if you ask me, how little effort they put into their appearances. Ginny Potter looked lovely, however. Her gown was very chic- and very expensive, I'll wager."

The comment earned a snort from her husband. "Yes, Potter must make sure she looks every inch her role as his trophy wife, mustn't he?"

"As well he must," said Astoria sourly, giving him a vaguely dirty look. "As well you would. _You _wouldn't have _me _disgrace you, either, by appearing at social gatherings in a sub-par gown. Anyway, she has her own money: big Quidditch star, and now correspondent for the _Prophet. _She doesn't need to beg her husband for pin money, although I'm certain he's as generous with her as you are with me." She paused, thoughtful for a moment. "I liked her. She said very little, but she seemed as though she has a good head on her shoulders. She's a firebrand, though, you can tell by one look in her eyes." Astoria chuckled. "She didn't like me. She is prejudiced. And _him, _your old nemesis…I never saw more unlikely a hero in my life. It's quite different, you know, to see him in person, from what one hears about him. I thought he was very good-tempered, if not the most wide-eyed innocent man in his late thirties alive….wholly unimpressive."

Astoria framed her request not in the interrogative, but in the declarative, and without lead up: "I would like to have them for dinner."

Draco's eyes widened, and his mouth fell open a small ways before he recovered himself. "Surely you cannot be serious," he sneered.

"I can and I am. I should like to know them better. And there will almost definitely be dealings with the Potter soon enough in the future regardless. Or did you miss how many times Scorpius mentioned Albus Potter's name whilst he was just home for Christmas?"

"Seeing as I was not temporarily struck with deafness during the entirety of his visit, no I did not," Draco snorted disparagingly. "I'm not going to pretend that I'm cheering on that budding friendship, but I won't discourage it, either. Still, there's a bloody big difference between having to suffer through exchanging polite words with the parents during the odd Quidditch match, and actually fostering a proper acquaintance with them by inviting them into our home!" He ended huffily.

Astoria stood and placed her palms against his chest. "You're not looking at the big picture, my dear. Do you want to be stuck in a menial, low-level job at the Ministry forever? Once word gets around that you're on good terms with Harry Potter, it might give your career a push in the right direction. And our social status as a family…" she trailed off.

Her husband pouted silently in front of her.

"Do it for us. For Scorpius. And for this little one," Astoria concluded, one of her hands leaving his chest and caressingly rubbing her swollen belly.

Draco dipped his head, and sighed in frustration, screwing up his features in an unappealing fashion. After a moment, he wordlessly lifted his wife's hand from the front of his robes, brought it to his lips, and kissed it.

* * *

It all came to a head one day in early March. Of course, at the time, Harry hadn't even fully acknowledged to himself that there _was_ anything to come to a head. But he should have at least been able to pick up on the change blowing in like a draft of chill wind from the north, even as the weather was warming gradually, and grew more rainy than snowy.

His first tip-off should have been that the Perma-smile hadn't been seen since the children returned to Hogwarts after Christmas.

It hadn't been adorning her face during the holidays, either: then her expressions had oscillated between quite authentic smiles stretching out across her face and eyes shining with happiness and love for having her children around her, and moments when she would step away from the rest of the family (who would be performing some simple little holiday act such as pulling apart magically-enhanced crackers), and Harry would look round to find her standing against the windowsill, looking empty and sort of disoriented.

He got the sense that something was dreadfully amiss, had gone wrong in their beautiful friendship. But he was at a loss to put a finger on what it was, what had caused it, or how to remedy the situation. They had never been a couple whose relationship was marked by frequent quarrelling (essentially, they had compatible personalities), and they weren't fighting constantly _now_. But what worried him was when they did, as opposed to any disagreements they'd had in the past, these seemed to be about nothing. They would fight over the pettiest things, so that later Harry couldn't even remember what the provocation had been, but they weren't long fights, or particularly heated. Still, there was something insidious about them. Harry began to feel that the worst fights were the fights about nothing, when the issues get talked around with an almost casual vitriol, but never addressed. You look at the other person and can tell that it stems from a bit of unhappiness in that person entrenched far into them, and yet at the same time their anger when they quarrel with you is so dull, it's as if they can't even be bothered to have a proper argument with you. Even when he and Ginny were getting along, sipping their morning coffee together, or curled up side by side on the sofa, browsing a Quidditch magazine, or catching a movie in Muggle London on the weekend, there was a look in Ginny's eyes like a weakly flickering candle struggling to stay lit behind those normally blazing brown orbs of hers.

She'd also stopped trying to have sex with him every other day. Harry wasn't as relieved about it as he had expected to be.

Harry woke up late on his day off and quite alone. When he finally stumbled out of bed and to the bathroom adjoining the bedroom, after he'd showered and thrown on some random thing, he returned to the bedroom to find Ginny waiting there for him.

She was fully dressed and had her hands on her hips. She had a determined sort of look in her eye that unsettled him. "I've already had breakfast," she informed her husband. "I put a warming spell on the sausages and the tea. Go and eat and then if you don't mind, there's somewhere I would like to take you today."

* * *

He didn't know where they were other than it was a children's playground. Ginny appeared to know the place, however. She glanced about them with the manner of one who'd been there before, and soon her eyes found a bench a short distance across the way.

"Why did you want to come here, Gin?" he inquired, puzzled.

Ginny looked at him straight-on for a few seconds, then faced away from him again and completely ignored the question. She took his hand, and led him across the still-frost-dusted grass toward the bench. When they reached it, she plunked her slender frame down on it rather heavily and gestured for him to take a seat next to her. She slumped forward a bit, pulling her shoulders up toward her ears as if guarding against the chillness in the air, but she seemed, absurd though it was, also to be shielding herself somewhat from _Harry. _As though there was something that she must needs suppress from him until the exact right moment. But what would Ginny have to hide from _him_?

"I've been to see Teddy."

"Have you?" He waited for her to continue, but she was silent. "Ginny?" She had a very odd look on her face and was staring at her hands folded on her lap. "And?"

"He...he asked me to come. He had something he wanted to talk to me about."

Harry knitted his brows together. "You?" he asked confusedly, "Something he wanted to talk to _you _about? What for?"

She raised her lovely brown eyes to his, and he nearly physically recoiled at the pain showing through there. She appeared stricken by his words, and bit her lower lip.

"I...I didn't mean that the way it sounded," he hastened to reassure her.

The hurt on her countenance didn't lift, but she said as matter-of-factly as she ever had, "No. You did. That's okay. I understand. We weren't married when Remus named you godfather and just because we are now doesn't make us god_parents_. He chose you. That's an honour, a real honour."

"Ginny..." but he didn't know what else to say, so let his voice drift off. And as they sat there on the park bench in a strange, unbroken silence for the next minute or so, his attention, as well, began to drift. Drift to, in particular, two children playing on a swing set, a boy and a girl. The boy was about eight or nine, shabbily dressed- not in his mother's old blouse, but in a stained T-shirt and ratty, too-big jeans with the hems of the legs rolled up several times. Still, he couldn't help thinking of another poor boy at a park like this long ago, treasuring the presence of a certain little girl.

He didn't know how or what brought him back to reality- some blessed, inner part of him bent on the preservation of his sanity, whispering that he couldn't, damnit _he wasn't going to _dwell on that, it did no good and was...unbearable. He remembered Ginny was going to tell him something about Teddy.

"What did Teddy say?" he queried, nudging her with his shoulder.

She nudged him back after giving a shiver and scooted closer to him on the bench. His arm went around her.

"I hardly know how to tell you this, Harry," she began slowly, as if she put a great amount of deliberation into each simple word she uttered, to make sure that it was the right one.

A million awful possibilities hit Harry suddenly with the speed and agony of a storm of arrows and Ginny's curious behaviour was making sense. "Good God, what's wrong? There's something wrong, isn't there? Ginny..."

She shook her head rapidly and patted his knee in a sympathetic manner. "No, no, Harry, calm down, nothing's wrong in the sense that you mean. It's only," she took a deep breath, then muttered quietly under her breath as if to herself, "Only!", before continuing, "Harry, Teddy confided in me that he's planning to ask Victoire to marry him."

Harry was shocked. "But-but he's...what? Not even twenty-two yet."

His wife nodded. "I know. They're so terribly young. I tried to caution him against it. If they really love each other, there's no reason they can't wait, right? What do you think?"

He shrugged, still flabbergasted that his godson Teddy Lupin was grown-up enough to be considering marriage. Wasn't it only yesterday that he'd taken Harry's broomstick without permission and flown it into those rosebushes, crying when he was wrested out covered in thorns, his Metamorphmagus's hair a mopey dark gray hue? Harry didn't quite know what to say about this latest development.

"Er...oh, yes, as you say...they'd better wait...uh, another year.."

Why was Ginny gaping at him? "Wha...a......_one_ year?" she sputtered, "Harry...it ought to be three at the very least!"

"I wonder why you ask my opinion when you don't want it unless it's the same as yours!" Harry replied testily. "I mean, of course I don't want Teddy...jumping into anything. I hope I always have his best interests at heart. But he and Victoire will do what they want."

"When we got married I was twenty-two and you were twenty-three. That's still very young, even though we waited. Or you waited, rather. Do you know..." Ginny got a faraway look in her eye and her voice grew softer, "When Ron proposed to Hermione at her graduation party, I expected you to do it, too..."

"You expected me to propose to Hermione?" cut in Harry with a poor attempt at humour.

"I thought you'd propose to me right after. I thought you'd be eager for us to be together, to cement our relationship. To go to sleep with me every night and wake up with me every morning. For our love story to really begin. I saw how in love my brother was, how keen he was to make Hermione officially his wife…After you defeated Voldemort, Harry, why didn't you come to me right away, in the Great Hall?"

Before Harry could even begin to articulate a response, Ginny plowed straight on ahead:

"I've been coming here for months, on my own, while you're at work. Just to think. I didn't understand why I felt so disappointed and alone. I thought there must be something wrong with me, that I couldn't be happy when I have everything. Then I realized that it isn't me…it isn't you either, Harry. It's- it's _us. _The two of us together.

I want to be _wanted_, Harry. Even though we love each other, it isn't enough. And I can't believe that I ever thought it was. Because it's not the kind of love that's needed to make a successful marriage.

I never imagined it would be like this. It's the same-old, same-old day after day and you can't stand to be alone with me. I've tried to change it, but still I can feel you slipping away from me." Her voice was a mere fraction above a whisper by the last sentence and Ginny wasn't a crier, but if Harry didn't known better, he'd have sworn a thin layer of moisture was about ready to leak from her eyes before, in the next second, she blinked it back.

"Gin, what- _why_ are you saying all this?" Harry half-laughed, reflexively pushing a hand through his untidy black hair in a gesture of unease. He could feel something building in the pit of his stomach again, a type of unspecific foreboding. "It's sounds like you're trying to tell me you're leaving me or something."

Ginny took a deep breath. "Harry...I didn't bring you here today to serve you divorce papers. I wanted to suggest a...a trial separation." Those final words left her in a rush, and they appeared to pain her, as if she had to summon her every ounce of strength to force them out.

Harry simply gaped at her for perhaps a whole minute, waiting for the punch line of what had to be a joke. He was not prepared to laugh, mind you- how dare she play such a rotten joke on him? But this entire scenario was unfathomable...he couldn't believe it from Ginny, couldn't take it seriously. She loved him. Adored him! Always had, always would.

Only...only she wasn't smiling. She looked downright miserable, in fact. And...sorry. Yes, see there, she _was_ playing a joke! And she was feeling guilty now, because she'd realized it wasn't the least bit funny...

Harry chuckled experimentally.

Ginny emitted a noise between a sigh and sob.

"Oh, God!" Harry cried, horror rising up in him. His wife slipped out of his grasp and turned on the bench so that her back was to him. "Ginny...Ginny! Ginny, look at me!"

But he knew that he had lost her.

_To be continued…_

**Yes, I know this is a Snarry and you're probably getting impatient to see Snape. Well, just wait, because I think I see a hooked nose coming around the corner for chapter four!**

**Thank you, everyone, for your interest in this story. I truly value your reviews, and fav/alert adds ! Please kindly continue to give me feedback. :)**


	4. Loose Lips Have Sailed More Ships

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter = Not Mine. No money is being made from this, and I intend no copyright infringement.**

**Chapter 4: Loose Lips Have Sailed More Ships**

Ginny essentially Disapparated without another word as soon as she'd dropped her bombshell on him and left him feeling as though his world had been shattered to smithereens. Harry walked aimlessly around that park for what must have been close to an hour, until it started to sleet quite badly and he finally returned to Godric's Hollow as well.

As he came through the front door he called out his wife's name. There was no answer. He called for her again as he walked through the rooms on the ground level of the house, but there was nary a sign of her. She was not there to see him get down on his knees and plead with her not to leave him. Alternatively, she wasn't there to listen to him rant and storm about the place, either (not unlike when he'd trashed Dumbeldore's office at the age of fifteen after Sirius's death), and rudely question her sanity for wanting to break up the family.

He might like to yell and scream and tear the house apart, though - this house, a symbol of their life together, his and Ginny's, together with the children, that apparently held so little value for _her._ He never would have guessed. But now...sinking into his armchair, he felt as if all the breath had been knocked out of him.

He sat. And sat. And eventually fell asleep in the armchair.

Harry awoke a few hours later with tears sliding silently down his cheeks. It was only early evening, but he decided to go to bed. He pinched the bridge of his nose, wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands and made his way to the master bedroom. He got into the bed on his side and faced her side.

Her scent clung to the sheets and her pillow. It was that same flowery scent Harry'd once detected from the cauldron of Amortentia in Professor Slughorn's classroom. Back in his sixth year at Hogwarts, Harry remembered smelling it and being reminded of the Burrow. He didn't know it then but it reminded him of the Burrow because it reminded of Ginny. Amortentia smelled different to everyone, depending on what attracted them and that potion had been able to pick up on his then-subconscious attraction to Ron's sister. And that year they'd fallen in love, Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley.

He'd since learned, long ago, precisely what that scent was- a mixture of her shampoo, and a cheap perfume she always requested from her parents for her birthday. It became so much her signature to Harry that, though he had, throughout the course of their being together, showered her with many expensive things, he never bought her a different perfume.

The next day there was an owl. It delivered its message and then immediately flew away again. Reading the note, it seemed that Ginny had, at least for the time being, moved out of Godric's Hollow. She hadn't told Ron or Hermione or any of the Weasleys what had happened, and wouldn't, until she and Harry had worked out "how best to proceed with their relationship". Her words. And of course there was "no need to upset the children until they'd arrived at a definite decision". Again, her words.

She would be in touch with Harry, but she wouldn't tell him where she was staying, she said. Because if she did, she felt certain he would show up there the next instant, and she really just needed to be alone right now.

* * *

Oh, how Harry dreaded Ron's reaction if he should discover that Harry and Ginny were separated! They saw each other every weekday at work and Harry was terrified Ron would somehow figure out that Ginny was no longer living at home. He didn't know how that would happen, exactly; it would be impossible for him to somehow simply _know_, to pick up on Harry's gloomier mood (which he didn't even let show in front of anyone) and immediately draw the conclusion that it was because his marriage was in a shambles. Nor did Harry think that it was at all probable that Ginny would tell her brother that she'd chosen to end her marriage before she got around to communicating the same information to her estranged husband. And if Ron should stop over unannounced, or ask Harry and Ginny over for a meal, or out somewhere with himself and Hermione, it would be easy enough to concoct an excuse for why Ginny wasn't around. So far, though, he hadn't had occasion to do this, which was fortunate, as Harry didn't much delight in the idea of lying to his best mate.

Nonetheless, Harry couldn't even walk into the Auror Offices any more without developing a knot in his stomach. He would sit in his office (which, incidentally, looked directly into Ron's) trying to work and felt sick to his stomach.

On one such day he couldn't take it anymore and even though it was only three in the afternoon, he made up his mind to just leave early. It was a Friday anyway, no one would make anything of his cutting out early. Although he was bogged down with paperwork, it was mostly just day-to-day stuff and nothing urgent, he could simply divide it up amongst his underlings, give them something to do. Harry had a work ethic that was generally strong as iron, so it wasn't like him to do such things, but it's not as though any of them were particularly busy with anything else: why, two were actually playing Gobstones at their desks! And he reasoned it with himself by recalling that he'd given them all an extra long lunch yesterday.

He nabbed his cloak and pushing open the pair of heavy oak doors strode out of Auror Headquarters, walking swiftly down the long hallway of level two of the Ministry of Magic toward the lift. He barely registered that he passed two people heading in the opposite direction, and didn't notice their faces at all, but he clearly recognized the voice that called out to him,

"Hey, Harry. Ducking out early?"

Harry halted and looked back over his shoulder to see Hermione. She was standing beside a wizard Harry'd seen around the Ministry often enough before, but whose name he didn't know. Somewhat reluctantly (he really wanted to get out of there), Harry turned and backtracked to walk toward them.

"Yeah," he said with a shrug. "Not much for me to do around here today, anyway, your husband and the others have more than got it under control." He eyed her inquisitively. "…Alright, Hermione?"

She looked frazzled, as she normally did at work, with her fuzzy hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, little stray wisps escaping it and sticking out haphazardly along her crown. Hermione tried to smooth some of these down now as she sighed and replied in a harassed voice, "There's been a difficulty with the case we're working one. You know, the one with the Goblin thief? Well, as it transpires, he is _not_ full-blooded goblin, but half house-elf. A combination you don't come across too often, admittedly. Which makes one wonder: shouldn't the house-elfish inbred sense of scrupulous loyalty to those they work for have prevented him from stealing from Gringotts? But in any case, the rub is that if he's convicted, what legislation do we use for his punishment? Goblins and house-elves are not, of course, listed in the same subdivision under the category of Creatures of Near-Human Intelligence. So that's what we're trying to work out now. Oh, and by the way, Harry, this is Mortimer Caulfield. Mortimer- well, I don't have to say, do I, you know who this is," she motioned to Harry in a tired way and thus wrapped up her rushed dialogue.

Harry and Mortimer shook hands and exchanged polite greetings as Hermione shuffled through and rearranged the hefty stack of documents in her arms. It was plain that Mortimer was used to working on cases with Hermione and how her frame of mind could turn near frantic when she was passionate about an issue or overstressed, because he sent Harry a conspiratorial little smile.

"Are you going to have to stay late for that, then?" Harry asked, abruptly struck by the urge to make plans to meet up with her later. All of a sudden, he craved to be able to sit with someone and make a discreet effort to gain some insight into his difficult situation, and who better than practical, wise Hermione?

"No, I'm not staying late, it won't do any good, and Ron and I don't have dinner reservations until seven. Why?"

He named a café in Diagon Alley and asked her if they could meet there in two hours time.

* * *

"Sorry I'm late!" Hermione called, bustling toward him, her bushy hair in the wind flying wildly behind her. Harry was setting on the outdoor patio of the little restaurant having a glass of pumpkin juice when she showed up. He shook his head to indicate that her lateness was excused as she slipped into the chair across from him.

The waitress came by their table and her Quick Quotes Quill jotted down another pumpkin juice on a little notepad as Hermione placed her order. The drink came after a couple minutes of Hermione chattering away about her house-elf-slash-goblin thievery case, saying more in that short amount of time than most people could ever hope to be capable of. Then, when the pumpkin juice was in front of her and she paused to wet her whistle, Harry mentioned,

"I got another owl from Draco Malfoy this morning."

"_Another _one?" Hermione shook her head in disbelief.

Harry's mouth contorted into an ironic smile. "I'm considering caving."

Hermione's brows traveled the better way up her forehead, and he answered her unspoken 'why':

"Well, the invitations started coming two months ago, after I met Malfoy's wife at that _Prophet _charity thing, and I've been rejecting them for so long that the blackmail's started. Draco and Astoria must have told Scorpius that I keep turning them down, because Albus's just written me, asking why I won't have dinner with his best friend's parents. I can't very well tell Al that I don't want to go because Scorpius's dad and I happened to not like each other so well when we were in school, can I? I mean, what kind of example does that set for Al? I'd like him to think that his father was beyond holding petty grudges."

"If only you were." Hermione smirked slightly. "Really, Harry, you're planning on going?"

Harry shrugged broadly. "Well…maybe. Anyway, I'd quite like to know why they're so eager to get me there in the first place. Could be a trap," he said, mostly jokingly but not entirely. "So I suppose, if I went, I could use some backup." He looked at Hermione meaningfully.

Hermione smiled grimly. "Somehow I think I would be even lower on their invite list than you."

"I don't think they'd refuse to let you in if I brought you and Ron along. You could come-"

"I most certainly will not," declared Hermione in a swift, firm voice.

"Why not?"

"Because I fucking hate that place, that's why!" Hermione rarely swore. The fact that she had to use a curse word to emphasis her point showed how serious she was. "Something about being almost tortured to death there. There's a line in _Persuasion _by Jane Austen which goes: 'one does not love a place less for having suffered in it, unless it has been all suffering, nothing but suffering.' And that pretty much sums up my experiences at Malfoy Manor- all suffering, nothing but."

"Oh, c'mon, Hermione!" Harry was surprised and a trifle disgusted at himself for begging like this; he'd no idea he wanted to go have dinner with the Malfoys- the _Malfoys,_ of all people!- so badly. Oh, well, chalk it up to being in _dire_ need of a distraction. Wife leaving, and all.

"Ron wouldn't want to go, anyway," Hermione pointed out with assurance, and Harry couldn't say that he disagreed, but even though he would let the subject drop now, if she thought that that was an end to the matter, then she was sorely mistaken.

But the time had come to raise the topic that had engendered this tête-à-tête in the first place.

"Hermione…" he began carefully. "If you don't mind my asking, how do you and Ron get on, you know, without the kids? Is it harder when it's just the two of you around the house?"

Hermione nodded understandingly, her face softening and falling a bit. "It _is _hard.

Sometimes I miss them so much that my heart physically _aches. _I wish I could see them every day. Just remembering when Rose and Hugo were still in their Muggle Primary schools, and then we gave them their magic lessons at home, how incredible it was to watch the joy of learning cross their faces, their eyes light up when they mastered either how to spell a new word or a new _spell_…I'd like to be at Hogwarts with them, watching them soak up the tremendous knowledge they're gaining there. And then of course I worry, too. Having them away from home. What if something should go wrong? But worrying is fruitless, so I try to keep it in check as much I can." She sighed deeply.

"Yeah, well obviously, but in addition to missing and worrying about the kids because you love them…" Harry went on, in a low, hurried voice, wondering if he ought to cast a Silencing Charm around their table, "have things…changed between the two of you any? Don't you find that there's a lot less to talk about without the children? That things are sort of…dull?"

"Is that what it's like with you and Ginny right now?" Hermione inquired, frowning a tad.

"Not exactly," Harry was doing his best to answer both carefully and genuinely.

It would be a huge relief to get this off his chest if he could do it in the right way. "But apparently it doesn't get me fussed _nearly _so much as it does Ginny. I pretty much have no complaints.

She says that it's the same old thing every day, and she's, like, mad at me for not spending enough time with her. And…I don't know, I reckon she doesn't think our relationship is…_romantic_ enough. But- I don't even…I don't even really understand what her gripe is! I mean, this is how it's _supposed _to be, isn't it? Does she expect us to be reciting love sonnets and being all over each other all the time or something?!" He finished in a loud whisper.

Hermione looked at him with sympathy in her eyes before lowering them and giving a slight shake of the head. "I'm so sorry to hear this, Harry, but as much as I hate to say it, I'm not surprised."

Harry's jaw dropped. Now, both Harry and Ron had always taken it for granted that Hermione knew practically _everything_. But _really! _How was it that she was even able to see a possible pitfall in Harry's marriage when he didn't even know about it himself?!

Irritably, he demanded to know as much, to which Hermione tapped her chin thoughtfully.

"Just watching the two of you interact, I always suspected there might be a lack of communication between you, and that it might someday turn into a problem."

"You and Ron are always quarreling," Harry crossly pointed out. "You call that good communication?"

"That's sort of our thing. You of all people should know that." She chuckled and took a sip of her pumpkin juice.

"Yeah, well, that can't be entirely healthy, can it?" remarked Harry nastily, knowing full well that he was being unkind, but caring less the more vexed he grew. "Your relationship isn't perfect."

"Never said it was," Hermione replied placidly. "But, listen- if we still care enough to argue, I consider that a good sign."

Harry gave an inarticulate grumble in response, not verbally acknowledging that was maybe something to think about. He could not imagine the day when he would be around Ron and Hermione and the couple wouldn't engage in their habitual squabbling, and yet, they were the couple that still spontaneously kissed each other passionately outside restaurants.

He wasn't planning on telling Hermione the whole thing with him and Ginny, considering she was Ron's wife and all, and of course Ginny was coming back any day now. But fuck it. He needed to unload.

"She's left me, Hermione." He put it to her bluntly, sotto voce. "We're separated. Happened last week."

"Oh, Harry!" exclaimed Hermione, looking sincerely very sad for him indeed.

"Yeah," was all Harry said.

Hermione's next words left her mouth almost timidly, but her expression revealed that she held some confidence in the truth of what she was saying, "But this couldn't have completely blindsided you, surely? You kind of implied that you expected your marriage to be- as you put it- 'dull' at this stage. But you can't really enjoy it? Why don't you try talking to Ginny about things other than domestic matters?"

"Huh?"

"Maybe," Hermione ventured hesitantly, "You feel she doesn't understand you..."

"Whaddaya mean?" Harry cried out, genuinely surprised, "Of course she understands me! She always gets when I need space..."

"Yes," interrupted Hermione, looking very serious, "Why do you think you need so much space from her?"

"I-" Harry started, then stopped. Frowned. "I don't… know," he said slowly. "I used to really enjoy spending time with her, almost as much as I do with you and Ron."

Hermione got an expression on her face like mingled wonder and criticism. "And you don't find anything odd about that? That you preferred Ron's and my company to that of your wife?"

Harry scrunched up his brow; he didn't get what she meant. "Not really, no. I mean, there's a difference between the best friends and the wife, isn't there? They're different…roles."

Hermione didn't _say_ that she didn't share this view, but he could tell regardless, and it caused him to feel even more stymied.

A silence fell upon them for a minute until Harry muttered, "Well, I guess I can't really expect you to keep this from Ron, can I?"

Hermione glanced up from stirring her drink with her straw. "No?" she asked quizzically.

Harry made an impatient noise and gestured at her hand lying on the tabletop, her left hand, where rested her wedding band. "You share everything, don't you? You're married. Aren't there supposed to be no secrets between married couples?"

She appeared to be considering his words, then smiled gently, the hand Harry'd indicated coming up to touch, fondly, upon his forearm. "I keep nothing from my husband that he _needs _to know; however, nothing is actually _happening_ as of yet. You and Ginny are in the process of trying to work out what you want to do, no one's filed for divorce yet. Your thoughts are your own property, Harry. I have no rights to them. You elected to express them to me and I am very glad that I could be of any use to my friend, if only as a sounding board. I shall keep your confidence, Harry."

Harry believed her instantly and was both touched and relieved. "Thank you, Hermione."

She was standing, getting ready to leave. Hoisting her purse over her shoulder, she came around to his side of the table. He, too, got to his feet and she pecked him on the cheek. "You're certainly welcome."

After that Hermione went home to dinner and Ron and Harry went home to an empty house. Maybe the old adage was true, he reflected as he fought to fall asleep in the bed he'd by this time spent six nights alone in, as a man in a "trial separation" (whatever that was) from his wife. Maybe you really didn't know what you had until it was gone. It was his last thought before slumber could find him and it was the same as it had been all those nights previously. He had never fully appreciated her, Ginny. What a damned foolish sod he was! Despite having lived his whole life with the dream of creating a family, never being lonely again, and putting an end to the fundamental differentiation that had always existed between his private life and that of his friends…look what had happened! He'd gained the dream and carelessly lost it. His children were all Hogwarts-aged now and he missed them sorely, but Ginny was the part of his family that should have remained, at least he had had her, and now she'd gone, too. Growing up, all the kids he knew had had relatives that loved them (even Neville, with his grandmother) to come home to, and Harry hadn't. Now his friends were all married, and Harry's wife had deserted him…was he to be set apart from his peers yet again?

He went back and forth between blaming Ginny for giving up, and blaming himself for not trying hard enough to keep her (even though he hadn't known it was necessary to make an effort with the woman who had vowed to stay with him until one of them died). All the while telling himself that she was sure to come back. She _had_ to.

He ignored the part of him which said that as happy and comforted as he'd be to have her back, were she spooned up against him and kissing his neck right now, he would be no eager to make love to her than he'd been before she left.

And he _pointedly _ignored the part of him that was beginning to hint that there was something wrong with that.

* * *

The Saturday evening after next saw him, Hermione, and Ron all going to the Malfoys' for dinner. After asking many more times, Harry'd gotten Hermione to yield to his request by playing up (not much, he didn't need to, as it was legitimately quite acute) his need for a distraction because of everything going on with Ginny. And Ron insisted on accompanying them, supplying the manly reason that he needed to come to "support and possibly protect Hermione".

The disadvantage to Ron's coming, of course was that Harry was finally compelled to lie to him about Ginny's whereabouts, telling him that she was away covering a Quidditch match.

Draco had kept up his father's practice of having peacocks parading about the lawn. They preened and strutted the grounds, their bright feathers lighting up the night gradually settling in around them, and calling out to each other in their ugly, high-pitched cries as Harry and his two friends made their way up the walk. Hermione was gripping tightly to her husband's arm, as, predictably, Ron kept making insulting references to Draco so as to convey how not thrilled he was by this outing. But Harry thought that for all Ron's grumbling, the red-headed man had a bit of a sheen to his eyes that betrayed his interest in being there; one was always curious to see how life for former classmates turned out; even and maybe especially how it did for your enemy.

The door was answered by Draco, who received them with a smile that was pained as if he had a toothache. "Potter. Oh, and the Weasleys. Come in, then," he uttered in a voice considerably tighter than his standard sneering drawl.

His wife came into the foyer to greet them as Draco shut the door behind them. "Oh, how wonderful, you're here! I've not yet had the pleasure of making your friends' acquaintance, Harry," she observed, using his given name casually, and smiling at him as though they'd had much more interaction than ten minutes' worth at a ball a couple months ago.

She now shook both Ron and Hermione's hands, speaking in her smooth, detached but agreeable manner. There was no distinction between how she treated 'celebrity' Harry Potter from the way she did Muggleborn Hermione, or 'blood traitor' Ron. She welcomed the guests that Harry brought with him sans permission or notice with as much deference as though she's invited them herself.

Following these preliminary greetings, however, nobody opened their mouth for a whole minute. They merely stood- in awkwardness as thick as stewed flobberworms- there in the front hall of Malfoy Manor.

Hermione got over her muteness first. "When are you due?" she asked Astoria.

Astoria gave what probably passed for a warm smile on her cool façade in thanks to Hermione for breaking the uncomfortable silence. "Two and a half more months." She patted her bump. "And won't I be happy once it's over with." Glancing at Hermione with a look of secretive communion, like wouldn't-we-women-know-about-this!

Hermione cracked a small, hesitant smile in return and Astoria asked, "Would you like to feel?"

Hermione looked fairly stunned; then, tentatively, placed her hand upon Mrs. Malfoy's expectant belly.

Ron was gazing all around himself, surveying the environment with sharp attention. "Nice place you got here, Malfoy." He folded his arms across his chest, looking at Draco and nodding, ostensibly in approval. "Random Auror thing, though; you mind if we just do a quick check of the dungeon for any prisoners, dead bodies…?"

"_Ronald!_" Hermione hissed in rebuke, colouring as her hand fell away from Astoria's stomach.

Draco glared and opened his mouth, undoubtedly about to shoot off some equally spiteful rejoinder, when Astoria interceded by saying lightly,

"In this house, Mr. Weasley, we live by the policy 'take no prisoners'." Her lips parted in a quick, ironic flash of pearly whites that she directed at Ron before adding, "and as for dead bodies, we certainly wouldn't leave them rotting in the house! The stench, you know. Particularly whilst I'm pregnant. Wouldn't be able to abide it."

Ron stared at her, dumbfounded, and Harry unexpectedly felt like laughing, although he managed to rein it in.

Astoria clasped her hands together. "Well…who's hungry?"

* * *

It was quite easy to see, by the time dinner was midway through, why Draco Malfoy had married Astoria Greengrass; her fixation with family lineage was such as must have reminded him of his parents'. She dominated the talk at the dinner table by reciting basically her entire family tree, though why she should assume anyone would be interested, Harry was damned if he knew. But perhaps she did it partly because nobody else seemed inclined to utter a single thing whatsoever.

Astoria carried on a flow of nonstop talk upon the subject of her relations and Harry didn't pay her even a cursory amount of attention until he heard her declare,

"...and my great grandmother Caelan's maiden name was Prince..."

Harry sat up straight in his chair, his focus now entirely on Astoria nee Greengrass Malfoy's family lineage. "Prince?" he repeated, his voice coming out louder than he'd intended it to and surprising him, "Severus Snape..."

"Is my second cousin, yes," said Astoria with a nod. "Great Gram's brother, you see, my Great Great Uncle Zophiel married..."

Draco suddenly sneezed so conspicuously it could have almost been fake. Everyone turned to look at him and his wife uttered a, "Bless you, my dear,", to which Draco replied,

"_Was_."

Astoria quirked an eyebrow in such a manner that Harry could've sworn was identical to how Snape used to do it. "I beg your pardon?" she asked, nonplussed.

Her husband flushed and took a rather hasty sip of wine that resulted in some dripping onto his shirt. He appeared, however, not even to acknowledge the ruination of a very fine silk shirt and instead, to make up for his momentary loss of composure, said deliberately coolly, deliberately offhand,

"_Was_. Severus Snape _was_ your second cousin."

Harry's head swiveled around so fast on his neck to look at Astoria on his other side that he was surprised he did not give himself whiplash.

For the briefest of half-seconds, every muscle on Mrs. Malfoy's face seemed to tighten. Then, oh-so nonchalantly, she picked up her fork and knife and set to cutting off a piece of her roasted chicken.

"Well, yes. Of course," she agreed, then popped her forkful of chicken into her mouth. The strange conversation had apparently passed and everyone went back to their dinners. Harry with a uncomfortable squirming sensation in his stomach, that did not ease when, out of the clear blue sky, Astoria found it necessary to add,

"Tragic, that."

* * *

Apparently, at the Malfoy residence, everything was always done according to tradition. Even though the dinner portion of the evening had not been a spectacular success, after it was over, Astoria still pressed her guests to stay awhile longer, suggesting that Harry and Ron join Draco for a brandy in library, whilst she and Hermione amused themselves in Mrs. Malfoy's personal sitting room.

"I need to use the toilet," Ron announced from where he sat on a gigantic leather sofa in the Malfoys' library.

"You mean you want to snoop," Draco muttered resentfully. He was stationed in a Chippendale chair pushed up to a desk adjacent Ron and Harry on the sofa. "Well, come on, then, Weasley, I'll show you to the loo. Be right back, Potter." And with that he led the way out of the library, nearly banging the door in Ron's face

Harry got up, stretching, and roamed over to the long wall stacked floor-to-ceiling with shelf after shelf of books. His eyes skimmed the titles on their spines when he recognized _Nature's Nobility, a Wizarding Genealogy_, and plucked it from its shelf (in keeping with the tone of the evening and all). There had been a copy of this at Number 12, Grimmauld Place, belonging to Sirius's family. Now Harry searched the mammoth tome for mentions of the Prince family. But it was extremely old, indeed, and while the Princes, as a Pure-Blood family naturally _were_ included in the book, they were Princes who had lived too early to hold any particular interest for Harry. Even the name of Eileen, Snape's mother, was nowhere to be seen.

But then Harry came to the back of _Nature's Nobility, _and realized that a new page, a handwritten page, had been added to it. It too was pretty old, although not nearly as ancient as the book itself. Harry guessed that it had probably been added by Lucius, which would be typical. Lucius Malfoy and his parents were included here, as was Narcissa and her sister, Bellatrix, but not Andromeda. A line ran from Draco's name off the page, onto the one opposite, linking it with Astoria Greengrass's, which had been filled in in a different handwriting. The other names on this page were those of her parents and sister, brother-in-law, nephew and niece, aunts and uncles, various cousins…

And _here_ was Eileen. And Severus.

And then Harry noticed something else.

Snape did not have a year of death.

It wasn't that this page wasn't up-to-date in other ways. The very fact that the more recent branches of Astoria's family tree were included in here and that it showed her marriage to Draco and the son they'd had together was proof enough of that. It had also been carefully written in that Narcissa had died thirteen years ago, but Severus Snape's demise back in 1998 was not listed. Why?

Unless….Was it too crazy to think that it was because he _hadn't _really died? But of course it must be. Even after that strange moment at dinner…

"Well, and how are you doing in here, Potter?" Draco asked with forced politeness, reentering the room at that moment. "Availing yourself of my books, I see. Which one has caught your fancy?"

He came up behind Harry and peaked over his shoulder.

Harry sensed Draco stiffen as the blonde man took in the contents of the page, and peering up at him Harry saw that Draco's grey eyes were latched onto Snape's entry, popping a bit.

Draco's eyes then hastily scanned the library as though for something else to talk about when they alighted on the three fully drained brandy glass lying on the coffee table. He dashed over, picked up two of them and headed once more for the door, tossing out to Harry in an uncharacteristically tweedy voice, "Ah, we've run totally dry, haven't we? I'll just run and get us a refill…"

He left, and as soon as the door had shut behind him, Harry again started to think of Snape. And of…the dreams….

The dreams began a few weeks after the war had ended. Somehow, Harry had gone that long without nightmares of the events invading his sleep. And of all the atrocities he had witnessed- not just that night he'd been killed, and then come back, and killed Voldemort- but circumstances preceding it, his and Ron and Hermione's long search for the Horcruxes…he wasn't sure why _this_ was the one pervading his subconscious mind.

And yet _how_ it tortured him. The first time it happened, well, he'd been sleeping on a mattress on the floor of what would become his and Ginny's bedroom in Godric's Hollow. Actually, she lay beside him that night, too, having come over to help him earlier, as he worked on renovating his parents' old home. After a hard day's work, they'd made time for play, had sex and fallen asleep contentedly.

Harry'd dreamt of being alone in a dark room. He'd walked around the perimeter of the room, running his hands along the walls, trying to find a door. There apparently wasn't one; he felt four solid walls, checked them each several times, and there wasn't an opening in one of them.

He was trapped and growing afraid. He couldn't see anything in the perfect, pitch black darkness. But then he began to feel a warm wetness trickling down his left arm. He looked down at it, and suddenly he could see- a white spotlight from nowhere throwing into relief only that arm- _blood_, a lot of it, though he had no wound to his flesh.

A sickening, metallic scent met his nostrils.

His legs were bleeding as well. Glancing down, he discovered them to be illuminated, now, too, and copious amounts of thick red liquid gushed hotly through the jeans he wore.

Harry screamed, and abruptly the entire cell in which he was enclosed was flooded with blood. It came up to his calves and was rising rapidly. His eyes wildly scanned his surroundings for some escape but it was as hopeless as before. He could see, smell the blood around him, but could see nothing beyond his own body.

And then he chanced to look up- straight up- and a pair of black eyes stared unmistakably back at him through the ceiling.

A voice echoed in his ears, "_Look…at…me…"_

That's when Harry would wake up. Crying.

Back in the present, Harry replaced the book, pulled open the door to the library, and went out into the hall. Draco was still heading down the long corridor, empty glasses in hand. Harry spoke his name to get his attention.

"Draco."

The blond man stopped in his tracks, but didn't turn, even as Harry moved quickly toward him. When Harry reached him, Draco said only, in a monotone,

"I won't tell you where he's at, Potter."

Harry's heart beat triple at Draco's indirect confirmation of what by now he strongly suspected.

"I…would like to see him."

Draco did pivot on his well-heeled heels to look at Harry now. "He doesn't want to see _you_, though, Potter! Surely you wouldn't expect anything different? He _loathed _you, as you must be well aware, and the last few years when the papers and such have finally begun to shut up about you have been a profound relief to him. How do you think he'd react if you showed up on his doorstep? I'll give you a hint- _not good._ Don't you think, after all he's been through, that he deserves at least _some_ peace now, Potter? And by the way, he's still furious that you offered up the memories he gave you for public consumption."

Harry didn't point out that _he_ hadn't been the one to sensationalize the account of Snape's life and role during the war, _he_ hadn't penned any of the numerous biographies that had been written about Snape once the truth came out. But as for testifying about Snape to the Ministry, about turning over the memories- how else was Harry supposed to get Snape's name cleared? Even in death, Snape deserved to be vindicated- and more than that. Celebrated.

[Which was why Harry _had_ been the one to lobby to have Snape's name included amongst the dead war heroes on the monument that stood outside Hogwarts (here he'd succeeded), and the one to fervently petition for Snape's portrait to be done and hung in the Headmaster's office (here he'd not)]

Harry shook his head vehemently and insisted, "I don't want to bother him. It's not my intention to walk into his life and start disrupting it. And you've got to believe me, I _definitely_ would not reveal his whereabouts to anyone, I promise. It's more than understandable that you have this loyalty to him, after what he did for you and your family. I just want to thank him for what he did for _me. _For all of us. Voldemort would not have been defeated without him. I know he hated me. But- not that you care- I've played the 'what if' scenario over a million times in my head. What if he had lived? Would it have made any difference for him to know that the ungrateful brat he spent years protecting, risked everything for, laid down his life for…I know he didn't do it for my sake, but _would _it have made a difference to know I'm not so ungrateful after all?"

Malfoy was still listening patiently, but so far looked unmoved.

Harry took a deep breath. As hesitant as he was to do a trade off like this with Malfoy, he really felt like it was more than worth it after all these years to at last get a hold of Snape and say thank you. He _had _to see the man!

"Look, I know you only have an entry-level job at the Ministry right now, but if you were to help me out with this, I could arrange a promotion for you-"

Draco cut him off, "It's not even your department," he scoffed.

"Doesn't matter." Harry smiled matter-of-factly. "If I put in a word with Kingsley, it would more likely than not get you ahead. As for your public reputation- which, I know could use some damage control, seeing as most of the Wizarding World still looks at you as the son of a Death Eater and an ex-Death Eater yourself- if you were to be seen eating lunch with me at work, or having a pint at a pub with me sometime-" He spoke through slightly gritted teeth as he finished the part of the bribe that included Draco pretending to be Harry's friend. He couldn't believe that he was volunteering to spend any more time hanging about with Draco Malfoy, and worse, having to do it in public and act like he liked it. He knew Draco, too, found little pleasure in the idea, and was probably fairly degraded that he had to rely on Harry to repair his image, but he also knew that his old school nemesis must see the sense in it, as well.

Draco vacillated, his face pinched as he tried to decide. Then, with a stiff nod and in a bitter-sounding tone, he said to Harry, "I won't tell you where he lives, but I'll give you the location of the apothecary shop where he works."

* * *

Harry landed in a muddy, overgrown field in the French countryside next to a small, winding stream and with the outline of buildings and cottages belonging to the village that was his destination not too far ahead in the distance.

As Harry walked its cobblestone streets, he reflected that although the little village was covered in a gray fog today and thus some of its charm was diluted, he could see how this could be a nice place to live, with its quiet, quaint appeal.

The apothecary shop lay at the bottom of a dead-end street. With Harry's Auror training, it was a cinch to dispense with the Wards put up around the shop. Then he cast Alohomora to open the locked door and went inside.

Past the front, store part of the structure a door led to the back, where a room had been well-stocked and set up for the brewing of lotions and potions and magical solutions and mixtures galore. Harry established himself on a stool in the corner.

After about a quarter of an hour of waiting, Harry saw the door to the brewing room turn. He sucked in a breath of anticipation and held it. A nondescript-looking bloke entered. He had clean, light brown coloured hair and a flat, squashed-in nose. Other than the sort of prowling way that he walked, this man in no way resembled Harry's old Potions professor. But then the man withdrew a wand from the inside of his cloak. He warded the door to the main part of the shop closed behind him, then swept the wand over himself to remove his Glamour. And Harry found himself looking at Severus Snape.

Clad in a lightweight black linen shirt and black trousers, it was evident the man had lost weight, which was not a good thing. Before, he'd look like he could have done with a good meal. Now he looked like he could do with several...for the next several months. His skin was still sallow, his hair still black and greasy, although the past twenty years had streaked it liberally with gray. It was longer, too, falling probably ten centimeters beyond his shoulders.

Harry stepped out of the shadows and cleared his throat.

Snape actually staggered at the sight of Harry, which told the younger man that Draco hadn't warned him that Harry might be turning up sometime in the near future.

Recovering himself momentarily, Snape uttered one solitary word in a perfectly toneless voice.

"Potter."

Suddenly, Harry wanted nothing more than to hug him. It was an impulse that took him slightly aback, as despite his relief and excitement when he'd first found out that Snape was alive, this was a man who, while Harry deeply respected and since many years ago understood better, he had never _liked._ He hadn't expected to experience this rush of warmth at the sight of him. Naturally, perhaps, Harry didn't step in and put his arms around Snape, but nor did he do so much as submit a hand to be shaken, or even get the chance to force a 'hello' out of his gaping mouth. For just then, Snape immediately spun around and exited the room, almost at a run.

_To be continued…_


	5. The Apothecary's Secret

**A/N: I took a longer break than I intended from writing this fic, and for that I apologize. I just got real busy with other stuff. Real life was calling. One can't live in the Potterverse 24/7, after all. Unfortunately, after having had such a lengthy break from it, I found it difficult to get back into the proper mindset to work on this story. Finally, I managed to churn out another installment and hopefully, you'll think that I got back into the groove enough to write it sufficiently well.**

**Disclaimer: I absolutely do not claim ownership of anything connected with Harry Potter, and no profit is being made from this fanfic. It also cost me comparatively nothing to write and post it. This, for me, is just a form of cheap entertainment. **

**Chapter 5: The Apothecary's Secret**

Harry, did not, it turned out, have to give chase very far, because as he burst out of the apothecary shop after Snape, his former professor appeared to have changed his mind about running, and came to an abrupt standstill in the middle of the little French community's small village square. In a sharp, precise movement the man whirled around to meet the perceived-challenge that was Harry. Snape was not wearing the heavy black robes that he was most often seen in back when he was a teacher: the ones which had made him evoke the image of a great, swooping bat, but Harry could practically hear the _snap_ of them anyway, echoing across time to the present day as Snape whirled swiftly round. And they were face to face, and Harry saw before him again the average-looking man from the apothocary shop. As Snape had been hastening away, he must have passed his wand over himself and restored the Glamour.

"How did you find me?"

Snape spoke with a distinct raspy undertone to his deep and smoky voice, doubtlessly an aftereffect of Nagini's bite- the bite that should have killed him.

Harry wet his lips. "Uh, I…I…"

"You are as eloquent as I remember," Snape observed. Despite the fact that he had undergone such a reaction at Harry's appearance as to propel him to flee the apothecary shop, his demeanor appeared to be wholly calm now. "Anyway, I suppose the means by which you've discovered my whereabouts are immaterial. It's easy enough to comprehend that _you, _our _Savior_,would be able to dig up any information you wanted to. Perhaps it would make more sense for me to inquire as to what took you so long?"

"I thought you were dead!"

Snape rolled the light blue eyes of the stranger he was Glamourized to look like and responded, "Naturally, you did. Nearly everyone believes me to be deceased. Which was, of course, my objective."

As was probably appropriate, they had bypassed the niceties and jumped straight into the Q&A period for Harry's burning questions.

"But why would you want everyone to think you were dead? After your name was cleared and the whole Wizarding World came to regard you as the war hero that you are?"

He recalled that Snape had always seemed to exalt in praise and admiration, and it seemed to Harry as though Snape would have gladly stuck around in a world where he was a hero. He remembered third year when Snape had thought that he'd be getting the Order of Merlin, First Class from Fudge for aiding in capturing Sirius, hearing the Potions Master's voice swell with pride.

"I had to make a choice," said Snape. "Between returning to a world that would _finally_ understand that I was _not_ pure evil, and how difficult my role in the war had been, or…finally living a life that was my own."

Harry knew what he meant. He himself had spent much of his life being controlled by others, and so had Snape. Now the man had his freedom, no longer anyone's pawn, be it Voldemort's or Dumbledore's. He was his own man. If he made a return to Wizarding society, while this would still be true, he would once again be accountable to forces outside of himself- the press, and his hoards of admirers. No matter how Snape might try to lead a life of privacy and quiet, his being 'back from the dead' would cause the type of pandemonium that would prevent that happening.

"I think I chose correctly," Snape went on. "And keep also in mind the terribly violating and intrusive means by which I ceased to become an odious figure in the eyes of the masses." He sent Harry a speaking look, probably meant to be fairly withering. But on Snape's camouflaged face, the effect was considerably less threatening than it would have been on his own.

Harry frowned intensely. "Blimey, yeah. Sorry about that," he said automatically, and subsequently cringed. It was a pitifully lame apology, when Harry wanted to offer so much more. He hadn't had any other option, it was true, but to turn over the memories, but how that must have affected Snape, to know that everyone knew his business, knew about someone as proud and private as Snape in some of his most vulnerable moments! They'd been picked apart and gossiped about and embellished egregiously in numerous sensationalized biographies. Somebody ought to apologize. And since nobody else was on hand and probably wouldn't do it anyway, Harry would have to suffice.

"I'm not suggesting that it could have been helped." When Snape said this, punctuating this laissez-faire attitude with a little twisting-of-the-wrist gesture of dismissal, Harry was borderlined stunned. Hadn't Draco said that Snape was "furious" about Harry turning over the Pensieve memories to the Ministry? Well, he didn't act it. He spoke of his injustices as one would speak of an old wound that had long ago closed over and left its scar, but was longer raw and gaping. He sounded…reconciled. Harry could think of nothing to say but, "I'm so happy you're alive!", which he blurted out quite effusively.

One of Snape's brows shot up. "Indeed, Potter?"

"Well, I am if you're Severus Snape," said Harry. "But I'm beginning to have my doubts as to your true identity. Despite having seen you with your Glamour removed inside the apothecary, I have my doubts that you really _are_ him. I came prepared to have you either bluntly refuse to speak to me at all or hurl twenty years worth of pent-up malice at me." He was being rather cheeky on purpose; was he _trying_ to provoke Snape?

"Are you _really _coming up on forty years old, Potter?" asked Snape with a sigh.

"Haven't you realized yet that time changes people? Is it so hard to fathom that I might have decided I hadn't the energy and the fortitude to go on hating you? That I opted instead to finally let go of the past and lead a life of peace and forbearance?"

_Was it? _"I don't know," murmured Harry, feeling confused and like he ought to be chastened. This was not the reception he had expected; all he had rehearsed to say went out the metaphorical window, based as it was on what he thought was the quite-safe assumption that Snape still hated him.

He was also finding it hard to think when he was hypnotized by Snape's distinctive voice. Even with the tinge of roughness it now contained, it was still hauntingly familiar, and fell over Harry like warm ripples of black velvet, starting at the top of his head until it pooled at his feet, leaving him wanting to shiver.

"I only came here to thank you, anyway. Before I go, I should like to be able to look you in the eye- _your _eyes- and do so. Won't you remove the Glamour so I can express my long-overdue gratitude to him?"

His companion muttered something inaudible and glanced away, passing a hand wearily down his disguised features. Next he turned and started toward a path away from the town square into a nearby wooded area, motioning for Harry to follow.

They walked perhaps a third of a kilometer into the woods until they came upon a small clearing, where Snape dispelled the Glamour again.

Seeing Snape _as_ Snape made all the difference. It made the knowledge that _he was alive _impact Harry full force. Harry inhaled sharply, and tried to keep his knees from knocking together in this, the most surreal moment he'd experienced in a very long time.

The unclean ebony (and white) hair, hawk-like nose, and too-thin body were a blessed sight to behold. And here was the face of freedom: precisely as Harry remembered it from all that time ago, except for a few wrinkles, and looking more sunken and…tired. Open and tired, and that was it. Harry frowned. In the past, Snape's face was mostly a careful mask of stoicism, but whenever it was unguarded, it put on view the voracious, dark energy that lay beneath. Not to say that his anger and bitterness had ever become him, but there was something listless, something almost…depleted about this peaceable Snape. For someone who had apparently come to terms with things, he seemed less solid for it. It made Harry want to change that, and once more he was filled with the urge to embrace the man.

"Thank you, Severus Snape," Harry breathed, not daring to make physical contact with him at all. "For your incomparable bravery and loyalty. For making Voldemort's defeat possible, and for always protecting me up until you couldn't anymore. From the bottom of my heart, with all that I am, I thank you." More grossly inadequate verbal restitution, but then how could Snape _ever_ be truly repaid? "You have no idea how much I admire you."

Snape inclined his head. "Enough to name a son for me."

"_How_ did you survive, though? I just don't see how it's possible that you're standing here today. Hermione and I were certain we watched you die back in the Shrieking Shack."

Snape gave a humourless snort. "You were not, to my knowledge, medically trained when you happened upon me in that miserable shack, so how much can your 'certainty' really be worth? After I slipped into my comatose state, did youfeel for a pulse, check to see that I had stopped breathing? Even before I lost consciousness, I do not recall you lifting a single finger to aid me. Very crude." Curiously, whilst Snape was confronting Harry with these accusations, the onetime professor didn't sound enraged at all, only passively aggrieved. He might have been complaining that it'd been raining too much lately. It was a contrast to Harry's emotional response:

"Like you said, I had no medical training! And how was I to know you were really on our side?" Harry exclaimed, a bit shocked to feel tears prickling at his eyes. He forced them back and persisted, "Please tell me how you stayed alive."

"How easily we forget," Snape murmured dispassionately, with the subtlest derision in his voice and finally a trace of a sneer showing through. "Or perhaps, not attended to in the first place. You were a dunce about potions, Potter, possibly too much so to fully recognize that _I _am a Potions Master of prodigious skill. I do believe I produce the best blood-thickening agent in history, for it to have kept me alive long enough to be found."

"'Found?'" Harry echoed. "By whom? Who got you out of there and helped you?"

"I suggest that you ask Malfoy: Lucius or Draco," Snape answered enigmatically. "Although, I suppose the chances that you are on speaking terms with either are not very great." He peered at Harry carefully for a prolonged moment and then his thin lips tightly compressed into a sober line. "Then again…" he murmured thoughtfully, "…I am now thinking that a Malfoy is how you came by the information of my whereabouts in the first place? Do I surmise correctly, Mr. Potter?"

Harry smiled guiltily. "Well, I hate to rat out my source, sir…" he trailed off.

"_Damnation!" _Snape cursed quietly. He shook his head, oily curtains of salt-and-pepper hair swaying. He glanced up at Harry again. There was a fleeting gleam of an emotion similar to sadness in Snape's eyes that was gone so quickly, it might have been a trick of the light, except for there was none on this day, or could pierce this grove of trees.

"What sort of a place _is_ the village you live in, anyway?" Harry questioned, looking through the trees toward the place, although he could scarcely make out any of its buildings from where they stood. "I mean, is it populated mostly by wizards or Muggles? Because I noticed that you are brewing _magical _mixtures in that apothecary, which I'm sure you must know are illegal to sell to Muggles. But if you're selling to witches and wizards, then any one of them worth their salt would be able to tell that you conduct your daily business- what you do of it in public, anyway- wearing a Glamour. So what gives?"

"What I brew in my shop," Snape began slowly, with not a little defensiveness, "is not created exclusively by magical techniques. They are more like ordinary, run-of-the-mill Muggle pharmaceuticals, infused with just a _touch_ of magic. They do not perform what the Muggles would deem miracles. They have elements that make them considerably more effective than what non-Magic people are used to, but the results are still believable and won't cause any of the villagers to infer that what they call 'supernatural' influences are at work. This _is _a Muggle village, I shall not attempt to conceal that from you, Potter, but as far as I can tell, I am not _breaking_ the rules, merely _bending_ them…Are you going to arrest me for it?" Snape's eyes momentarily acquired a combative sheen that seemed to come from the old days.

"Don't think I can," Harry replied, with a shrug. "You are out of my jurisdiction," he continued, grinning.

Snape nodded. "That is true."

Harry referred to his watch. "It's getting to be evening and I'm famished. I don't suppose I could buy you dinner?"

Snape merely gave him an uncooperative stare in return.

"I thought not," Harry admitted. He sighed disappointedly and offered a wave goodbye. "Oh well, more's the pity. I must be going. Farewell for now, sir."

"Ah," Snape uttered in an indecipherable tone, black eyes snapping. "'For now'. Will you be back, then, Mr. Potter?"

"Count on it," Harry returned, with a kind of cheerful defiance.

In the cafeteria of the Ministry at lunch time, the rare instance had occurred that Harry, Ron, and Hermione were all taking their mid-afternoon meal break simultaneously, a phenomenon that seldom occurred, and it seemed fortuitous that it occurred on a day when they had much to talk about concerning their dinner with Draco and Astoria the night before last.

"Malfoy is _clearly _whipped," Ron opined gleefully. "It's so obvious that Astoria rules Malfoy Manor that it's not even funny!" He took a too-generous bite of his sandwich, some of the mayonnaise oozed out and dribbled, unnoticed by Ron, down the redhead's chin. Hermione snapped her fingers to get her husband's attention, then pointed to a napkin, plainly signaling that he should wipe his face. He did so, and Mrs. Granger-Weasley queried,

"Where do you get that idea from?"

Ron shrugged, making an isn't-it-obvious face. "I could just tell. The way the Astoria directed the entire evening and steered the conversation, and Malfoy just went along with everything and sat there at dinner like a bump on a log, not saying a word until he spazzed and spilt wine on himself."

"You know the reason for that probably is that Astoria hasn't any unpleasant, complicated history with us. She has no reason to feel awkward around us and Draco does," Hermione pointed out, her brow puckering.

"So- Hermione," asked Harry, "what did you and Astoria find to talk about, when you went off together after dinner?"

"Oh, loads of things," she replied pleasantly, smiling slightly. "I will admit being in that house- especially with you two in a different room- at first left me somewhat…unnerved." She gave a small, authentic shudder, paused for a moment as though to recover herself, then began again tranquilly, "But I soon began to relax. I don't think anyone could help but find Astoria's company entertaining, she's charismatic enough after all. And she actually invited me back, to come and play croquet sometime," Hermione revealed, her mouth twisting into a smile of slight astonishment that she'd received such an offer, but did she also seem sort of…_happy_ about it, too?

"The Malfoys play croquet? It's not too…Muggle for them?" Harry asked, choosing to not even address the actual strange part of what Hermione'd just told them, that Pureblood-mad Malfoy's wife wanted to cultivate Muggleborn Hermione's friendship. Of course, she could always have an ulterior motive for doing so…such as using Hermione to repair her public persona, like Draco was doing with Harry.

"Apparently not," Hermione replied, ignoring the fact that Ron was watching her carefully over his soup. "I might just take her up on the invite, too. Whenever my schedule allows, that is. I might have more free time on my hands now with the kids at Hogwarts, but at present I'm still being kept very busy with the upcoming trial of the part-goblin, part-elf. But I would be happy to meet her again some afternoon after that winds down, we did get on pretty well, you know, and what with Ginny out of town," (subjecting Harry's insides to a tiny jolt at this mention of his absent wife), "I could use the female companionship."

"Hermione," Ron stated in an atypically stern voice. "I don't think that's a good idea. Since when do we trust Malfoys? How do you know this isn't-"

Harry didn't catch the rest of what Ron was saying. He became distracted, as, beyond Hermione's shoulder, Draco came into view, emerging from the row of Ministry workers lined up to get their lunchtime victuals, clutching his tray and glancing around as if trying to spot someone in particular.

"Oh, _damn_!" Harry muttered under his breath, trying to hide behind his food as his gaze flitted covertly over to the new arrival. Was Draco going to want to hold him to his end of the bargain already? But of course he would, Harry thought with an internal sigh. Giving in to the inevitable, Harry ceased cowering, sat up straight in his chair, and flagged the blonde over.

"_Harry!"_ hissed Ron, once he spotted what his friend was about. "The hell are you doing? Draco's coming over here!" When Harry just tuned him out, Ron slumped back in his seat, his eyes darting back and forth between his wife and his best mate, muttering quietly, "You've both gone barmy!"

Draco slunk into a chair beside Harry and across from Ron, a self-satisfied smile on his pointed face and aimed at the redhead. "Hello, everyone. How fortunate, that we should all be taking our lunch break at the same time today!" he drawled in an affectedly smarmy tone.

"Malfoy," Ron began coolly, "I don't know what mistaken notion gave you the impression that you're welcome to sit with us, but-"

"Uh, it's okay, Ron," Harry intervened. "Malfoy and I have plans to make. We were going to grab a drink together after work today, and we have to decide which pub to go to. Isn't that so, Malfoy?"

"Why, _yes, _indeed!" Draco declared jubilantly.

At this disclosure, Harry feared Ron might faint clean away.

One of the very first things Harry said to Draco once they'd received the pint they'd ordered (and more than a few double takes from other bar patrons who were surprised and maybe even somewhat critical and protective on behalf of their 'Savior' to see him walk in with an ex-Death Eater who existed on the fringes of society) was:

"He hinted that you and your father made it possible for him to survive…after Nagini."

And then Draco had launched into an explanation of how, sometime in the space between their flight from the Astronomy Tower the night Dumbledore died, and Snape being appointed the new Hogwarts headmaster, Snape had mentioned one evening to Draco about the secret passage which led from the base of the Whomping Willow to the Shrieking Shack. After Voldemort was killed, Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco had snuck out of the castle and used this tunnel with the aim of reaching Hogsmeade and being able to Disapparate. They'd encountered Snape, lying unresponsive in a huge puddle of his own blood. Their first thought was that he _had_ to be dead, but on further investigation they determined otherwise, and Lucius had performed a stasis charm on him before levitating him out of the Shack. At which point the Malfoy family successfully Apparated away with the extremely gravely-wounded Snape to France, where he was cared for by the best Medi- wizards and witches.

Harry and Dracp didn't talk much more about Snape, though one might think that since he was just about the one acquaintance they had in common and both thought well of, he might have been predominated the conversation as the topic safest to talk about. What they discussed instead were frivolous little tales of their respective domestic lives. They talked about their children, especially Albus and Scorpius, with each man of course bragging up his own son, although they did it with consistent good-humour. Harry wouldn't make such an overstatement as that he now thought Draco a thoroughly decent human being, but he appreciated Draco at least not making the outing any tenser than it inherently was by behaving like an outright prick.

About an hour after they arrived they quitted the pub and walked along side by side down the street.

"So…have you had a chance to talk to Kingsley yet?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Not yet," he answered lightly.

"See that you do," Draco said, turning up his nose. "This had better be worth it. You know, my godfather went positively ballistic on me for revealing his whereabouts to you."

Harry was hard-pressed to believe that, that Snape had gone 'ballistic' on Malfoy, Not _this_ Snape.

Suddenly, Harry stopped in the streets and grabbed Draco's sleeve. "Malfoy," he said urgently, "you don't think that- that he would take off, do you? I wanted to visit with him again, I said that I would be back and he didn't tell me not to come! He-"

Malfoy sneered and brusquely yanked his sleeve away. "Get ahold of yourself, Potter! Merlin's beard!" He shook his head. "You really think he's going to uproot his life because of you? You probably believe the sun rises and sets and the tides turn by your will. He wouldn't abandon the home and the work he's had for the past two decades just because there's the threat that _you'll _be calling on him now. You're not that intimidating," he scoffed.

"The hell I'm not," Harry muttered, but he was biting back a smile. There had been, remarkably, a playfulness to Draco's speech despite its insulting content, and upon taking a moment to reflect, Harry decided that altogether, it had been a pretty okay evening. It was growing late, however, and they ought to be calling it a night soon.

He looked over to his companion; Draco attention had been diverted by a shop's window display and Harry consequently reckoned now was his opportunity to politely take his leave.

Ginny was home; she standing in the middle of the kitchen.

"Ginny!" Harry as good as gasped.

"Harry-" She spoke his name rather breathlessly, and her face was pale.

He took a step toward her, feeling the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. By the time he was standing mere inches from her, it was a full-fledged grin, stretching his face from one ear to the other. If he'd taken the time to truly look at _Ginny's _expression, he would've seen that she, on the other hand, looked shamefaced. He did _not _ntice this, however, because he was right in front of her now, and all he could think was that she needed to be in his arms.

"Ginny! My God!" He had laughter in his voice as he wrapped his wife in a joyful, affectionate hug. He was about to say 'welcome home', when Ginny spoke first.

"Harry, I'm so, _so _sorry!"

"All is forgiven, Ginny," Harry promised her, breathing a sigh of relief against her hair. Her arms wound cautiously around her husband's midsection, and they held each other for the space of a few moments before she put her hands on his arms and pulled them away from her. Her eyes locked on his face, she took a step back, then turned from him and strode to the other side of the room, seeming to be in the midst of some great anxiety.

"You probably shouldn't be so quick to forgive me…" she insisted, eyes trained at the floor now.

Harry smiled at her fondly, compassionately. How tough on herself she was being! Although, she was right to apologize, obviously, seeing as she was the one who'd pointlessly caused them both this grief and uncertainty by putting a perfectly marriage in peril on a whim. But Harry did not forget his newfound realization that he hadn't appreciated Ginny as much as he could have, thus some of the blame was unarguably his.

He'd allowed his wife to become discontented, which was unacceptable, and he would waste no time in trying to make up for it.

"Ginny, really, there's no need to act so distressed. I'm just happy to have you back. We had a rough patch that lasted little more than a week- during which, I missed you like crazy, don't get me wrong- but some people take much longer to come to their senses, and by the time they do, their relationship is ruined. We had a minor blip in ours, but it's over now, and we can-"

She interrupted him, still with an expressively rueful voice, "I didn't think she'd tell anyone, I really didn't! I know it was naïve and stupid of me, and I, I…have no excuses. All I can do is apologize, Harry, I am so, so sorry! I know I should have waited. I wasn't thinking of you, only about myself, and how in my mind, everything had already been decided, it was over. I don't think I could have betrayed you in a worse possible way." Her flame-haired head hung down like that of a forgotten marionette puppet. "I really didn't think she'd breathe a word…"

"Gin, love, you've lost me. I have no idea what you're talking about…" He reached out and laid a hand on her arm, grasping it as if in a physical representation of how he was attempting to grasp what she was saying to him.

His wife dislodged his hand by exasperatedly flinging both her arms in the air, her head snapping back up as she moved away from him once more. She seemed more herself now, although obviously worked up. "Harry, I'm talking about a couple things here, and you'll never how deeply sorry for them I am. I betrayed you, and moreover, I was not discreet about it. The repercussions will be both private and personal, and we will both have to suffer."

Harry was beginning to feel as though a cloud was descending over their happy reunion scene. "Pardon?"

"Well, first of all, Harry, by the time they get a look at tomorrow's Daily Prophet, everybody in the Wizarding World will know that we're separated."

_To be continued…_

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	6. How the Mighty Have Fallen

**Chapter 6: How the Mighty Have Fallen**

"And why will they know that?" Harry's voice was remarkably controlled as it issued the completely pointless question. 'Pointless' because all the pieces had fallen together now and their sum total assembled a picture of a cuckolded husband; a thoughtless, disloyal wife; and a marriage that lay in undeniable tatters around their feet, and a world waiting to crane their necks at the exhibit.

"Because I…slept with somebody else and they went and blabbed to the _Prophet,_" Ginny answered in a shamed voice. She sank tiredly into a chair on the other side of the room from him, having consciously or not put as much space between them as possible, which in the snug kitchen of Godric's Hollow, wasn't a great deal.

The shock was still reverberating through him- however, the infuriation was not far behind, and would not wait for the first emotion to run its course before demanding expression. "Why? Why the _fuck_ would you do such a thing to me, Ginny?" She must have thought it a rhetorical question, or otherwise was having too much an attack of conscience and mortification to speak.

"Why?" Harry again asked forcefully. "Is this why you wanted a separation? So you could go and sleep with somebody else? We're _still __married_, Ginny! Do marriage vows mean nothing to you?"

"Oh, Harry, of course they do! I've behaved atrociously, I have no excuses, and if you want to yell and scream at me and call me a stupid whore, I promise not to contradict you. But you must know I didn't set out to do this! I didn't leave here looking for someone to go have an affair with." His proud, indomitable Ginny looked as though she might actually throw herself prostrate at her feet to beg his forgiveness, and yet he was unmoved. "I didn't…_mean_ for this to happen! I especially didn't mean for any of it to get leaked to the press!"

And yes, then there was that, too: as if the enormous blow of his wife's infidelity wasn't enough, the whole world would soon know of it! Of all the things being famous could bring about, in his opinion the worst was unquestionably being fodder for the press. Even positive press could be irksome: a dozen photographers clambering for the first picture of each of his children after they were born, for example. He had to admit, though, that he hated the negative quite a lot more.

Harry was nearly beside himself with anger. "How can the _Prophet _be printing gossip about us, anyway, Ginny? You _work_ for them! That was one of the conditions you set with them before you would sign on as a correspondent; that they not publish any more rumors about our family!"

"That's the thing, though, Harry: I _don't_ work for the _Prophet_ anymore. One of the first things I did after I left here about a week ago was quit my job as Quidditch correspondent!" Ginny cried miserably. "I wanted a clean break, a fresh start for every aspect."

"'Clean'?" Harry mocked viciously. "You call any apart of what you've done 'clean'?" He laughed humorlessly. "That's really rich, Gin."

"You were never supposed to know," she desponded.

Harry paced the short width of the room, determined that as horrible as this situation was, there _had_ to be something about it to make clear what could be salvaged.

Finally he grasped it.

"Why would anyone even believe this story, anyway? It's more than common knowledge that the _Daily Prophet's _been known to print codswallop. And since they're running it right after you quit, it would seem quite reasonable to assume they're merely doing it in retaliation to your desertion, if that's the version of things we put out there."

Ginny's eyes went wide.

"You want us to say that it's not true?"

"Well, I just don't want the whole goddamn world looking at our relationship and judging it! Every time we go out, I don't want people pointing at us and whispering behind their hands, 'There go the Potters, the cheater and the fool, you know they can't really be happy.' And even after ten, fifteen years have passed: 'There're the Potters; remember when she cheated on him?'"

"Harry-" Ginny started, almost gasped, mouth agape slightly. "I was warning you, so you could brace yourself for the onslaught of lurid media coverage about my infidelity and our breakup that'll be coming tomorrow!" his wife shouted, her tone no longer apologetic, simply annoyed. "And to express how deeply sorry I am for betraying you! Not to make up! I _never _intended to reconcile with you, Harry."

Harry wondered how it was possible that he could feel at once so teeming with fury, and yet so emptied out on the inside. "Then why didn't you just tell me it was over forever that day in the park, instead of giving me all this nonsense about a trial separation?" Instead of giving him false hope. One thing about Harry Potter: after all he'd been through in his life, one of the things he could most ill stand was other people knowing more than he did about things that affected his own life, and keeping them a secret. Well, here was Harry's supposed partner in life, and having made a decision to renounce that role, she'd not even had the decency to be upfront with him about it!

"Harry, I cheated on you. I dishonored our marriage vows. I can't believe you still want to stay with me, to find a way to make this work."

He couldn't abide how she was looking at him with such pity in her eyes, and jerked his head away, his ire writhing in his chest.

He heard the legs of the chair scrape against the tile as Ginny pushed it back, then the patter of her footsteps as she walked around to stand in front of him, holding him by the forearms, gazing into his face, and yes- it's there, how long has it been since he's seen it?- that old hard, blazing look in her eyes that he used to admire so much.

"I can't believe how far you're willing to go to keep your image of the perfect little family intact." Ginny appeared to be sorry for him, perturbed, and angered by him all at once. "For Merlin's sake, Harry Potter, you're the fucking savior of the Wizarding World! Don't you think you at least deserve a wife who wants you!"

She may as well have Crucio'd him as said that; pain filled Harry's heart. He knew he was looking at her with an expression upon his face like he'd just had all the wind knocked out of him.

"I'm sorry, Harry. But you stopped wanting me first. And I did try, for so long, to do something about that, to make it go back to how it used to be. But it didn't work. So I had to do something else. I had to move on. I had to finally give up on you."

For the first time he demanded to know, "Who did you cheat on me with?"

Ginny sighed her remorsefulness and replied hesitantly, "You may have heard of her- Quiana Notus? She was drafted as a beater for the Harpies last season. Well, they were having this Quidditch clinic for children ages eight to ten- and I stopped by and volunteered my services as instructor, and she was there doing the same. We hit it off, and went out for drinks afterward, and…one thing led to another, and well…"

"A woman," said Harry numbly. "You cheated on me with a woman…Are you a lesbian?"

Ginny gave a little squeak at the term. "No!" she cried at first, her blush deepening. Her mouth twisted, then she let out a breath and spoke more calmly, "I don't…I don't know." She looked down and drew invisible circles on her arm with her fingertip. "But the chemistry was right, and it felt so good to…to have somebody be enthusiastic about…being with me. And- I don't know, it felt like I was being less unfaithful to you, somehow, if it wasn't with another man!"

Harry had to admit, it _did_ hurt somewhat less than it did when he'd just assumed Ginny had found comfort in masculine arms that weren't his. At least he knew what a woman had which he did not. But it was still adultery, it was still painful, and it brought about thoughts like, this woman who he was married to, did he know her at all? Had she ever shown any signs of being interested in her own sex? Why hadn't he picked up on them? And had she always wanted to be with another woman, or was it his doing? Was his bedroom savvy so lacking that he'd turned her off men completely?

"I've hurt you worse than I feared I would." Her voice warbled slightly. "This is going even worse than I thought it would."

"Oh, really?" Harry spat, "How did you think it would go?"

"Please, Harry, please. No." Ginny said, and Harry watched as she pinched her eyes closed, hard, and took several deep, audible breaths, composing herself. When she opened her eyes and spoke again, she'd acquired the crisp, managerial air she often took on around their children. "Let's not do this. We've said all that needs to be said. I could say I'm sorry again, but it wouldn't make any difference. And you could continue to say whatever angry things you'd like to me- you're certainly got the right to, but I wish that you wouldn't, for both our sakes. Let's not go on talking, and say things we'll regret. I want this to be an amicable divorce; I want us to still be friends."

She dusted off her robes, then smoothed her hair and squared her shoulders and said, "My solicitor will be in touch. Now if you'll excuse me, I think it best if I go and break the news to my family before they read about in the newspaper first."

**BREAK!**

Sleep was quite impossible after all the scene that had just taken place. Consequently he was still quite awake and alert when, in the very early hours of the morning, green flames were suddenly dancing in Harry's fireplace and the Floo deposited an infuriated-looking Ron on his hearth rug. Harry was emotionally drained but still he immediately warmed to the idea of a row. He'd not been made at all satisfied with the conclusion to his confrontation with Ginny and it'd left him spoiling for another. Although _she'd _been the one to do wrong, _she _the one begging for forgiveness, thus starting him out with the upper hand in their row- by the end, he knew he'd ceded it to her, when she'd begun controlling and steering the course of the argument.

"You've left my little sister!" Ron thundered.

"_I've _left _her_?" shouted Harry, "I guess you'd better take a look around you, huh? 'Cause it seems to me that I'm still here and she's the one who's gone!"

"Well...well!" Ron huffed, ears gone very red and looking angry indeed. "Well, I'm sure that wasn't her idea!"

This set Harry off worse than probably anything that Ron could've chosen to say; the implication that he had treated Ginny poorly, unjustly. "What," he raged, moving across the room until he was standing nose-to-nose with Ron (well, not quite- more like nose-to-chin, Ron being taller), "the hell is _that_ supposed to mean? That I threw her out or something?"

"No!" Ron retorted, "No, I don't think it happened just like that..." He trailed off with an unsure frown.

Harry shot him a disgusted look, turned around and stomped away. Raking a hand through his hair and trying to take a steadying breath he asked, "What did Ginny _tell_ you happened?"

He had his back to Ron, so he couldn't see his face- rather, he _felt _his embarrassment as the other admitted, albeit grudgingly, "That she needed to get away for awhile. That she couldn't take it anymore." Ron gulped audibly. "That she wasn't happy."

Harry turned around and nodded in sarcastic encouragement. "And because she's not happy with me-" he prodded.

"She…cheated on you," Ron completed, with obvious reluctance and disapproval in his voice. The question was, disapproval for whom? Or who the greatest quantity of it was for, anyway. His next words he spoke in a softer voice, though his brows knitted together in an unfavorably judgmental way as he gazed at Harry. "It's a damn shame, mate, and I'm more sorry than I can say about it. You better believe I gave her hell about that, I did, but…" he left off for a few moments, struggling, "She's my sister, isn't she? I've known her all my life. I know what it takes for her to walk away from what she loves. I know that she'll only do it when it's been made impossible for her to stay."

In Harry's mind, there was only one way to take this: that Ron really did believe this was all Harry's fault, that living with him must have been an absolute nightmare to have driven Ginny off.

"Did she tell you that in spite of her unfaithfulness, I was still willing to stay with her?" he questioned hotly.

Ron bobbed his head. "Yes, she did- she did tell me that."

It seemed that having to make so many concessions deflated the redhead; the fight seem to go out of him as his body un-tensed and his posture seemed to droop, and the agitated flush subsided from his complexion. With one final, conflicted glance at his brother-in-law, he sort of shrank toward the fireplace, and stood inside of it with his handful of Floo powder and his back to Harry.

"We'll have to get past this, Ron."

He observed Ron's back to stiffen.

"Yes, I- I reckon that we will," the redhead agreed hesitantly. It sounded as though he had a sizeable lump in his throat. "But it'll take some time. I don't think we ought to be seeing each other for awhile, Harry."

**BREAK!**

Shortly after Ron left, a missive by way of owl arrived at Godric's Hollow from Harry's ex-wife-to-be, letting him know she'd contacted Hogwarts, and asked a favor of Minerva. That James, Al, and Lily be awakened early, before the other students were rising for the day, and taken into a separate room to eat their breakfast, so they might be spared sitting in the Great Hall when the newspapers arrived. The news of the divorce was then broken to the Potter children by their parents themselves, and in private, without all of the tawdry and blown-up details the press would have them believe. Meanwhile, another member of the staff spoke to the children in the Great Hall, urging them to take whatever rumors they might encounter about the Potters that morning with a grain of salt, as you couldn't believe everything you read, warning the students against gossiping about it, and above all, on no account to mention any part of it to James, Albus, or Lily.

It was the most heartbreaking aspect of this whole thing; when Harry had had to speak with his children about the divorce, he felt his heart should be rended to pieces.

Ginny had gone first; she'd been the one to actually communicate to them that their parents' marriage was ending. It was just was well- Harry was certain _he _wouldn't have be able to bear being the messenger.

Then it was his turn to talk to the children via Firecall. The puffiness about his little Lily's eyes suggested that she might previously have been emotional, but by the time Harry got to her, she'd evidently reconciled everything within herself, for her countenance was level and calm. But this was her way: the initial reaction, dramatics, ceding before long to pragmatics. And by the end of the conversation, she even had some philosophical remarks to share with him that frankly astonished him.

Al was sad-eyed but stoic.

James, ordinarily the least outwardly sensitive of the three, seemed to take it the worst. He was the one to flat-out call his parents selfish idiots, swear at his father and attempt in vain to hex him through the Floo connection, and storm out of the room, leaving Harry with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

The day following the bombshell announcement of the Potters' breakup and Mrs. Potter's affair, Harry and Ginny released a joint statement confirming that their marriage was over. Harry took a sabbatical from the Ministry (for some reason, he still couldn't bring himself to out-and-out quit) and contemplated his next move. Ginny had packed up and left the house for good, and for Harry as well, staying at Godric's Hollow, was, for the time being, impossible. Scores of reporters were encamped outside his front garden gate.

He would have to find a place to lie low for awhile, but in the meantime, he came to the conclusion that a visit to Snape sounded like just the right cure for both taking his mind off his own troubles, and to get him out of this watched house for a time.

**BREAK!**

"A different Glamour?"

"Polyjuiced," Snape corrected as the two of them , on their way to dine on the other side of the village, strode through the wooded area they'd stopped in during Harry's first visit. "Got the hairs off a customer in from Germany who's since left the country; so we shan't be having a run-in with him tonight."

"But I don't understand the need for it," said Harry. "Why can't you be seen dining out with a…an-an acquaintance?" Snape took very long strides. Although they were roughly the same height, Harry was obliged to walk at a significantly brisker pace than was his natural to keep up with him.

The other man gave a grim little smile. "Ah, because I _never_ dine out. Much less with a companion. It will incite unwelcome interest in my life. They might mistakenly deduce that I am the sort of fellow who has friends, and be inclined to attempt polite conversation with me when they come into the apothecary."

Harry coughed to disguise a laugh.

"Uh…just so you know, I didn't tell anybody about you."

"Yes, I felt implicitly that you wouldn't."

Harry was surprised at this instant trust of Snape's and shot him a bemused look. "Really? Why is that?"

Snape's lip curled. "Well, I did briefly entertain the possibility that since you've always fancied you know what's right for everyone, it may very well be you'd decide that despite what I'd professed to want, I'd really be _much_ better off as a celebrity like yourself and call a press conference straight away to say that I am still of this world, and publicly disclose my location." Again, despite the sarcasm latent in the man's words, they were delivered sans any bite. "But upon further consideration, it seemed far more likely that- having made known to you my fervent desire to lead a normal life- your Gryffindor sense of honor would ultimately see to it that you'd keep your mouth shut."

Harry was very pleased at having been able to cajole Snape into dining with him, but it did lessen the wonder at having found Snape when the man looked like somebody else altogether. And moreover, somebody far less interesting. This bloke Snape was impersonating might be a very good sort of fellow, but he just wasn't the sort Harry could ever picture being a renowned war hero, much less a controversial double spy.

**BREAK!**

"Well, tuck in," encouraged Harry with a smile. With a lightly scolding manner he added, "You can do with a good meal, I'm sure. It looks like you haven't had one this age!"

Snape gave a tiny scowl. "Eat to live, Potter, not live to eat. I obviously partake in enough nourishment to sustain my life." He brought a spoonful of duck soup to his mouth and sipped at it, then nodded in approval. "As I said, I very seldom dine out. But I've been here a few times before, and the food has always been satisfactory, as it is tonight."

They ate in silence for many minutes. Then Harry asked, with great hope in his heart and substantial doubt in his mind, and in a carefully innocuous voice,

"Are you happy, then?" A loaded question. Harry felt almost as soon as the words left his mouth that perhaps he shouldn't have asked it at all, but of all the questions he had for Snape, it was a strong second only to 'how did you survive?'. And that one had already been answered.

Snape appeared openly taken aback for the briefest of moments, before his countenance returned to its more typical cast of detached placidity. "What kind of question is that?"

"A very easy one, I should think," Harry replied, with a kind of half-smile, eyeing the other man curiously.

Snape's currently amber-coloured gaze did a quick sweep over Harry, revealing nothing as to what he really felt. "_Yes_." He almost hissed his reponse, surprising Harry- shouldn't that snakelike sound be positively unappealing to Snape, considering the type of creature that had nearly ended his life?

"Hmmm.. I don't think happy people resent being asked that question quite so much," mused Harry, taking a swig of wine.

"Go to hell, Potter."

Harry looked up at him in open surprise at the sudden injection of the old enmity into Snape's voice. The ex-professor's jaw was rigidly set, his eyes hooded and it made Harry laugh a little.

"I know all too well your opinion of me, Severus Snape. I know you believe I am here- that I sought you out- solely to absolve to myself of the guilt I'm sure you must fancy I possess over not trusting you as I was told to, or not respecting you as my professor, or some such nonsense. Well, let me disabuse you of that notion right now. I feel _no _guilt whatsoever about any of those things. I had no reason to trust you aside from Dumbledore saying I should, and as we both know by now, he made his share of mistakes in life. Also, you are a very intelligent man, and a wizard to be reckoned with, but you were a _dreadful_ teacher. Maybe if you'd given all your students a copy of your old potions textbook, complete with all your notes and annotations..."

"I _knew_ you had my book!" Snape cried out, satisfaction mixing with anger.

"What I'm trying to say is," Harry cut across him, earning the younger man a cool glare that sent a chill through Harry, but also, perversely, almost made him want to let out a laugh of relish at the same time, at a trait of the old Snape showing through. "I was prejudiced against you all the time you were my teacher at Hogwarts. I was prejudiced against you because you were prejudiced against _me_ from the very beginning. Both your very position of authority and my desperate wish to be liked and approved of would have seen to it that I would _not _have ridiculed you as my father so unjustly did when you two were students together. Occasionally _disobeyed_, very probably," conceded Harry, with an arch smile at Snape, that was not answered even by a gleam of the eye, although the ex-professor did not dispute the argument his former pupil had just made.

After a couple of minutes, Snape saw fit to bait Harry's interest by saying cryptically, "And by the way, you do not, in point of fact, know what my opinion of you is, Mr. Potter."

Harry straightened a little in his seat, intrigued. "Really?" Though Snape had claimed not to hate him anymore, Harry reasoned that some little bitterness, as a minimum of negative feeling, must still attach itself to Snape's view of him. That Snape, looking back on his memories of Harry, had at some point over the years begun to regard him with an esteem equal to what the younger wizard felt for the potions master, was entirely too foolish a thought to entertain. But had he maybe, at least, finally learned to separate Harry from his father?

Harry folded his hands on the table and cocked his head to one side. "Care to enlighten me?"

"As of the last two decades, my thoughts of you have been accompanied by feelings of supreme indifference," claimed Snape sedately. "Currently, however, I am unable to identify _what_ my estimation of yourself is."

Perhaps five minutes' silence followed, during which they polished off most of their dinners. Then Harry decided he may well as not risk the question again:

"Are you happy, Snape?"

Snape tore off a portion of his croissant and popped the morsel into his mouth. He locked eyes with Harry as he chewed, swallowed, and then, surprisingly, answered.

"I was not meant to be happy, Potter."

"How can you say so?" Harry exclaimed, looking at Snape, who winced. The older man gave the impression of being fairly disgusted with himself.

"I...that was rather maudlin of me," he remarked contemptuously.

It was how he really felt, that much was obvious, Harry realized. Snape didn't expect to get to be happy in life. Yet...he thought it was wrong, of course he did, to voice it. _Fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves, who cannot control their emotions, who wallow in sad memories... _Even though Snape hadn't sounded the least bit whiney or morose saying it, he worried that he'd come across as self-pitying. Well, why should Snape care what, he, Harry, thought? Although...maybe it would make more sense that he was especially desirous of not betraying any weakness to Harry Bloody Potter.

Harry laid down his fork and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin.

"I think, unfortunately, I will have to take that to mean 'no'."

**BREAK!**

"I hope you are properly grateful," mentioned Snape (who looked like himself again), handing Harry what was quite a scratchy blanket as the younger wizard stood beside the sofa in the older wizard's sitting room. The space was no roomier than the small sitting room in the house in Spinner's End [Harry had gone to Snape's old house with a team of Aurors shortly after the end of the war, so the Magical law enforcers could collect evidence that would either support or not the testimony of the Pensieve, that Snape really was on the side of the light. (while there, Harry may or may not have also picked up one or two mementos for himself)], and it looked perhaps even more cramped on account of all the clutter it contained. Although sparsely furnished, it overflowed with knickknacks. It appeared Snape had turned into something of a hoarder.

Harry waved his wand at the sofa. Transfiguring it into a comfy bed, he sat down on the edge of it and peered up at Snape. "You may depend on it. Thank you."

Snape stared back down at him. There was a permanent line etched between his brows, and Harry watched it deepen to a prominent chasm as Snape frowned. "I do hope that your dreams will provide you with some sort of epiphany and you'll wake up knowing where you want to spend your…vacation, or whatever it is. Even if they don't, however, come the morrow, you will seek out alternative lodgings. I do not have houseguests, Potter."

"Understood." Actually, he was profoundly surprised that Snape had extended the offer of even _one_ night's lodging under his roof. As they walked out of the little brasserie, it had been coming on to rain, and Harry had impulsively, artlessly, certainly daring no expectation that Snape would supply him one, lamented that he'd no immediate place to go and seek shelter, being that he'd just decided earlier in the day to live away from home briefly.

What Snape might have inferred from this about the state of the Potters' marriage, the younger man didn't dwell on. He did not know if word had reached Snape in his little corner of the world, this secluded little French community, of his scandalous divorce, but was rather inclined to believe not. Harry found it too difficult to believe that the man, notwithstanding his new docile attitude, would be able to refrain from making some barbed commentary on it if it had.

Harry's stream of thought was interrupted when something in the fireplace caught his attention. Amidst the crackling flames in the grate had appeared the face of Draco Malfoy.

Upon noticing the path Harry's gaze had taken, Snape moved toward the fire, lowering himself in an elegant motion to kneel before it (approaching sixty he might be, but evidently so far free of symptoms of arthritis).

"Ah, Draco. To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?"

His godson frowned haughtily at him. "Dubious my foot!"

"I say 'dubious', Draco, because you rarely contact me unless it is to beg a favor that will usually cause me substantial inconvenience to accomplish for you. State your business."

"I would like for you to please brew a potion that**- **_Potter_?" Draco belatedly noticing Harry's presence, did a double take. And looked, quite honestly, mildly horrified to be discovering him there in Snape's cottage, but then the emotion faded from his face and a lax indifference appeared in its stead. "Is my godfather hiding you away at his place, then? Why, it's just like the old days, isn't it, Potter? Your name is on every tongue, being bandied about in every corner of the Wizarding World from sunup 'til sundown." His gave a click of the tongue. "My, how the mighty have fallen."

Harry just shook his head, not even angered by the smart-arse comment; it was pardonable, as Draco spoke as a man would who knew from personal experience.

"I can't believe you let him in your house, Severus," Draco continued, Snape's given name on blonde's tongue sounding decidedly odd.

"Whyever not? I let _you_ in, don't I?" the former professor jibed ironically. "But back to the point at hand: you asked about potions? Is Lucius again requiring more pain relievers before he is due for them?" He gave a faint snort. "He's developed a recreational fondness for them, I suspect."

"No. I do not contact you on my father's behalf, but rather my wife's," Draco announced. "She's been having very intense back pains. She insists they're not typical of women in her condition- she describes it as a piercing pain that begins in her back and goes through to her stomach, making her feel as through she's got a throbbing hole straight through her abdomen. These pains are so debilitating that some days she cannot even get out of bed."

"And has she consulted a Medi-wizard about her symptoms?"

"Yes, but the remedies the imbeciles advised are laughable: hot baths and bed rest! Ha! Have you ever heard of such ineptitude? Her symptoms are obviously unique to being pregnant with a baby with magic to spare, and they're recommending us_ Muggle _cures! Blockheads!"

Snape frowned and scratched his chin. "I might be able to manage a call on her tomorrow after I close up the shop."

Draco nodded and after uttering a few departing pleasantries, the usual tiny _pop _sound was heard, and his head disappeared.

Snape unbent at the knees and stood, depositing himself in a rocking chair and facing Harry.

"The Malfoys, it would seem, are doomed to fertility problems. It has been so for at least two previous generations. Lucius was left an only child after his younger brother lived but a few days after birth, and Abraxas Malfoy was the lone offspring of his parents as well. Of course, Lucius, for his part, married a very delicate wife. In another example- as if either of us needs reminding of the tendency of it to happen - of history repeating itself, she, like Astoria, underwent a particularly tough time of it once she did manage to become pregnant. One could speculate that it may well have something to do with breeding within Pure Blood families being less effective, but Arthur and Molly Weasley's having produced a veritable tribe of progeny would seem to contradict that theory. And Astoria's paternal grandmother is half-blood; a circumstance, I assure you, that Lucius felt himself quite generous in overlooking when sanctioning her marriage to Draco."

Not knowing how to reply to this, Harry merely changed the subject and inquired, "Do you ever get back to England, sir?"

"The first few years after the war, I kept far away from the UK. Then there was a period when I returned several times a month, and I visited such places as Diagon Alley, even the grounds outside the venerable Hogwarts." Snape paused; a wistful note had crept into his voice, but it was quelled when he spoke again. "It's now been more than two years since I was last in my homeland, when I started my cousin on her treatments. It took ten months, but ultimately, by continued use of a potions regimen of my development, she was able to conceive another child. But her pregnancy has not been an easy one."

Quite out of nowhere, Harry found the divulgence, "My wife and I are getting a divorce," spilling from his lips.

"Ah. _That _is what Draco meant about your name being back in the news. Oh, I'll bet that they're all so terribly disappointed in you. You, the conquering hero, the idol of the Wizarding World! You were supposed to marry your maiden fair and live happily ever after. You've let your public down: how careless you've been, Potter." Snape might've been trying to sound as though he was ribbing Harry good-naturedly, but it wasn't working. By light of the fire, Harry was scrutinizing his former professor closely, and he did not miss the way Snape ducked his head to hide how his expression altered in demonstration of what was unmistakably a slight vindictive enjoyment at this breaking bulletin. This was where his experience as an Auror in interrogating criminals and learning to watch for small facial cues came in handy. And he liked to see these signs of animation in the man. It wasn't as if Harry thought Snape being mean to him would be pleasant, but if it would help Snape to seem more…well, _alive, _to speak his feelings, he still wanted him to do it. Besides, Harry was an adult man now- he felt quite certain that he would be able to tolerate Snape's cruel remarks with far more equanimity than he had as a child.

"We've both moved out of the house. I could have stayed, but it's surrounded by press, and besides that, I feel funny living in the 'family home' all by myself."

"And what of Grimmauld Place?"

"I still own it, but I established Teddy Lupin and Andromeda Tonks there years ago. Along with a live-in housekeeper to help with the tending to of such a large house, as Andromeda's getting up in the years. A _human _housekeeper, that is. For a time, Kreacher literally 'popped' back and forth between Godric's Hollow and Grimmauld Place, helping us out in addition to Teddy and his grandmother. Of course, I always had to make certain he was at the latter place whenever Hermione happened to be visiting Godric's Hollow. She's made great strides in the area of magical creatures' rights, you know, and although I always treated Kreacher well, she still didn't and doesn't approve of keeping house elves. When she finally _did_ learn that Kreacher was working at two households, she became positively enraged, and hurled the most impassioned accusations of elf ill-use at my door," Harry recalled with a grin that turned sad after a moment, thinking of his ruptured friendship with Hermione's husband. Of Mrs. Granger-Weasley's continued allegiance, Harry knew himself to be secure. He'd already had a conversation with her about his marital problems, after all, and she hadn't been judgmental or reproachful toward him in the least. She would've been saddened by the news of the divorce, but not altogether astonished by it. And while she cared very much for Ginny, there was no question of her taking her side over Harry's.

Snape snorted, but then a few moments passed and glancing over at him, it was obvious his thoughts had strayed far from Harry's anecdote.

"Godric's Hollow," he murmured in a low, remote voice, then looked almost startled, as though he'd spoken without meaning to. He brought a hand up and began, slowly and delicately, to work his hand up and down his throat. The motion had the feel of a nervous tick about it. "I confess I've…wondered at your decision to make that place your home, given…" His voice faded out, but never mind; he hadn't any need to complete his thought. Harry immediately figured out how it would've ended: _…given that's where your parents were murdered._

"Oh," Harry said quickly, "Well…that is…that's true…but I try to focus on, you know, the happy times they spent there, being young and in love, and there with me-" Harry stopped abruptly, paralyzed momentarily by a sting of realization, that Snape probably didn't want to hear about how happy his-long-lost-love Lily had been with his loathed rival, James.

The air hung thick with a certain tension for a moment, and Harry could feel that the older man's eyes were upon him.

Snape coughed softly into his fist and rose to his feet.

"It is very late," he pronounced. "And I did want to get to the shop a couple hours before open in the morning to go over receipts and perform inventory. So I think I shall venture off to bed."

"Oh…alright, then," said Harry, the abruptness with which Snape ended their conversation taking him aback. "Well…good night."

Snape was at the doorway to a short corridor that led to what must be the man's bedroom when Harry added impetuously, in words tumbling out in awkward knots,

"I'm glad we've…gotten the chance to talk more tonight. I hope that we can continue to, you know…get to know each other. I-I really think it will be good for both of us."

Snape paused without turning around, his long pale fingers curled around the doorjamb.

"_Sleep_, Potter," he commanded brusquely, "Or it's out into the storm with you."

"Goodnight, sir," Harry repeated, laying down his head with a smile ghosting over his lips. It was unusual in the extreme, but although the recent events in Harry's life had cast a shadow over an existence that had become, first like several sunlit days, then like countless peaceful, golden afternoons, he couldn't shake the impression that a light had entered into it again, in the form of the dark shape that was exiting down the hallway.

_To be continued…_


	7. Another Picture

**I always say I'm not going to do this, but then it ends up happening anyway. **

**Ha.**

**As if it just somehow **_**mysteriously**_** happens, and I don't know why. I do know why; it's because I don't put my nose to the grindstone. Again, I've taken forever to update. I've said it before and I'll say it again: writing these characters does not come as easily to me as those from the other fandom I write for does. I have to **_**really**_** be in the mood to write HP fanfic. But I had the idea and I wanted to do the story. I couldn't bear -to borrow a page from the JKR playbook- for **_**my**_** version of things not to be out there. But if it's going to be even halfway readable, it has to be worked on at my own pace- even if my own pace **_**is**_** annoyingly slow, which I apologize for sincerely. **

**To those of you who have stuck with me since the beginning, especially, I have such incredible gratitude for you.**

**So I'm done promising to 'update soon'. The only promise it would be fair to make you all is that I **_**will**_** finish this story at some point. The sooner the better, obviously, but I can't in good conscience say that it definitely won't be a long wait for another installment. I mean, I'll do my best. I'm going to try and squeeze as much into the next chapter as I can, so that I might even finish the story with it. **

**I also issue an additional apology to anyone's review that I neglected to respond to. I assure you, it's nothing at all personal. Sometimes I let my inbox become too cluttered. I know there's no rule saying I **_**have**_** to reply to reviews, but since I have it posted on my profile that I always do, I'm sorry.**

**So sit back and enjoy (I hope) the longest chapter I've ever written for anything.**

**Disclaimer: Nothing in the Harry Potter franchise is mine. I own no piece of that pie.**

**Another Picture**

Draco Malfoy had never expected to love his wife.

After all, love wasn't one of the required components to make a successful marriage. His own parents had been proof enough of that. It had been a mostly peaceable, cooperative union that, while containing, Draco believed some degree of real mutually-held warm regard, had not been founded on it, and at its most basic level was one of convenience.

Though he was by no means averse to _ever _entering into the matrimonial state (he appreciated fully the importance of carrying on the Malfoy name and continuing that family's noble line), Draco, at twenty-one, felt quite strongly that for he himself, could put off matrimony for at least another decade. But since his mother, her health rapidly deteriorating, had begun to quite strenuously recommend that he soon take a wife, he'd yielded without much objection.

The Malfoys brought home a succession of suitable young women for dinner to get to know their scion and he courted them all, until Astoria Greengrass had begun to stick out to him as something special.

He'd known her elder sister, Daphne, at school, of course, and had held no particular regard for her: fatuous, insipid, lump of a girl, with a very unpleasant bray-of-a-laugh. Astoria was very different: she was bright, she was witty, she wasn't hard on the eyes. It wasn't long, either, before he began to consider her positively beautiful, and everything, in fact, that a female should be.

That being said, he was not in love with her when he proposed (though he did so perfectly willingly; the time they'd spent together during their brief courtship had him totally convinced of their compatibility), nor did he even reflecting upon it now think it likely that he yet was when they married some months later. However, the knowledge of his true feelings for his wife began to make itself apparent sometime after their relocation to Paris.

If she felt herself disappointed once she'd discovered what her life, married into the supposedly-illustrious family of Malfoy, had turned out to be, she never gave any indication of it. She still held her head up high while she conducted her life, proud to be by his side, proud to be his wife. Nor did she ever display impatience with the sour turns his moods frequently took. Which was not to say that she dealt only in sweetness; rather, it was her own special brand of acerbic humor, encouragement, and criticism that was largely responsible for accomplishing Draco's character-building. She wanted to help him, she wanted him to be happy, she insisted, because he was her husband, her chosen lot in life, and because, she said, she truly saw potential in him. According to her, he was "a good person". There'd been hardly a thing he'd heard in his life to equal the shock value of that statement when Draco'd first heard it.

For somebody who'd spent his life attracting companions with the clout his name carried with it, with the material things his family's wealth could potentially obtain for them, the thought that maybe somebody appreciated him for himself was a radical one, one that scarcely made enough sense to be processed by his brain. And if the day he finally believed her, when somehow the blinders fell from his eyes and he looked into hers and saw something much more than mere dutiful solicitude, if that marked the expansion of his tender feelings for her into what became a very sincere and abiding love, who could fault him?

They began trying for a child a year after they married, but this aim proved unsuccessful for an enormous length of time. Eventually they had had to recruit Severus to brew a series of potions that at last enabled her to conceive and carry a baby to term.

It was Draco's mother's dearest wish to meet her grandchild, but sadly, it was never to be. She passed away two months before Scorpius Hyperion was born. If she had only held on for two months more…That what she'd longed for had been so close to being realized was hard for her son to endure.

Her death was quite a weighty blow to Draco. For so long, she had been the only nurturing (all things being relative) influence in his life. For a time, he could function only as a shell of himself. But he was able to pull himself out of his doldrums by remembering that, despite this awful tragedy, there was more good in his life than there ever had been before. There was another woman who loved him, an amazing woman who just wanted to be close to him again, and there was no way in hell that Draco was going to be as distant with his wife as his father had been with Narcissa. And there was this precious new baby in the world now who needed his father. And just as Draco was unwilling to make the same mistakes Lucius had made as a husband, he was similarly disinclined to repeat Lucius's fatherly mistakes. In the end, the tragedy of his mother's untimely demise made him cling all the more steadfastly to his own wife and son, establishing very much the type of family he'd wished his own had been when he was a child.

And so Draco Malfoy found himself something that he never thought he'd be, something he'd never believed himself capable of being- a devoted husband and father. And- perhaps even more extraordinary- he found that all those he was devoted to, were equally devoted to him.

**BREAK!**

"It is very cold in this room," Draco observed, as he entered the drawing room in Lucius's apartments in Paris, the son once again on the errand of bringing his father pain-relieving potions.

"I am not chilled in the least." Lucius said languorously, tipping his head in such a way on the pillow that he could see his son, who stood behind the sofa. "Where is your wife? Why doesn't my dear daughter-in-law Astoria come and visit me anymore?" As he uttered the word 'dear', a vaguely sardonic quality might have swam into his tone, annoying the younger blonde man.

Draco's lips turned downward slightly. "Well, as you know, Father, expectant witches are advised not to Apparate, and since there's been some medical debate as well about the safety of using the Floo, and especially in light of the troublesomeness of her pregnancy, we decided to err on the side of caution. She has, thus, no way to travel here- besides highly inconvenient Muggle conveyances." Draco strode to the sofa and laid a blanket over his father. "But she sends her compliments, naturally."

"I thought I already told you: I am _not _cold!" Lucius threw off the blanket impatiently.

"You look very poorly, Father, very poorly indeed," said Draco baldly, dropping into a chair close at hand. So early in the visit, and he'd already had enough of his father's snooty, petulant attitude. And a certain way to land a barb with Lucius had ever been to insult his vanity.

The observation had its intended effect; Lucius blanched and scowled in indignation. He lay glowering up at the ceiling, drawing in his lower lip in displeasure until it turned white. After a minute, he spoke again. "It can't be long now, can it? How much longer before the newest little Malfoy makes his entrance into the world?"

"I think I told you before that we are hoping for a girl. Astoria dearly wants a daughter," Draco said. "We've already got a name picked out for her: she is to be called Astrid Narcissa." He waited for Lucius to express approval of the appellation.

"Hmm. You would be more sensible to hope for another boy," Malfoy senior advised. "The ideal is to get the heir and the spare."

"An ideal that you and Mother nearly met. You've told me the story many times before, of my brother's death as an infant. And every time I believe I told you how I would've liked to have known him, to have had a sibling. But it strikes me a peculiar thing, wanting to have more children in the hopes that at least one of them will make you proud, or because you are anticipating one of them meeting a ghastly early end."

"Well, it proved an unnecessary worry, didn't it?" pointed out Malfoy Sr., with the deepest sarcasm. "As fate would have it, I didn't _need_ another child. Why would I? When I've already got a son who's everything I could ever want?"

**BREAK!**

Harry woke up with the initial impressions of being well-rested and toasty. For the first few moments, awareness of his environment, and remembrance of what had past the night before eluded him and he very briefly lay still and waited until the events of the previous night at length came back to him. He sat up slowly and gazed about himself. A fire was lit in the grate, responsible for a warmth in the room that Harry realized was almost too much as he sat there a bit longer. He pointed his wand at the fire and dialed the flames down a bit. He felt himself touched at the thought that Snape had kept it lit just for him, then reminded himself not to jump to conclusions. It might not have been done for his benefit at all. Perhaps Snape liked it to be warm when he got home from his shop. Just because had been able to endure the chill of the dungeons at Hogwarts didn't mean he preferred it. Though in the kitchen while Snape had not left breakfast waiting for him, a warming spell had been cast upon a pot of tea. He glanced at the clock and found it to be nearing noon. He'd overslept, indeed.

Harry helped himself to a cup and stood sipping it whilst looking out a window. The scenery he beheld was not one of beauty, precisely: Snape lived in comparative isolation, as was undoubtedly his design in choosing this cabin as his home. Outside was only greenish-black grass, plus some bracken to the east of the cabin. It was a spread of landscape undotted by other buildings, that did not vary as far as the eye could see but for the stream that cut across it maybe fifteen yards off. When Harry had landed in that field on his first trip to see Snape, he'd actually been fairly close to man's cabin. The spring thawing had just begun in earnest, and the water in the narrow stream was not gently flowing, but almost surging, and murky and slightly polluted-looking. Harry wondered about the source of it and thought of the dirty river near the industrial town of Spinner's End. Wondered if this may have been a factor in Snape selecting this place to live, that it reminded the ex-professor of his former home.

Suddenly, he heard a slight disturbance in the room from which he'd just come. He drew his wand quickly and moved stealthily into the sitting room, pointing his wand out in front of him.

He lowered it as his eyes alighted upon the person lately arrived so unceremoniously in the ex professor's sitting room.

"Draco?"

The blonde man swiveled around, brandishing his own wand. His apprehensive expression quickly changed to one of shock. "Potter. Here again? This is a most interesting development; and if I mistake not, you were wearing those same unfortunate clothes when we spoke via Firecall last evening. Dare I ask if you spent the night?"

Harry stowed his wand within his pocket. "I did spend the night. It was pouring buckets last night, and since I'm keeping away from my house while it continues to have a swarm of paparazzi around it, the prof- uh, Mister-, uh, your godfather was so obliging as to give me shelter for the night, so I didn't have to wander around in the storm, looking for a place to stay." He paused and couldn't help wondering just what was so 'unfortunate' about his garb. Too Muggle, Harry supposed. Still, perhaps there really was something wrong with it; how was he to know? Harry simply wasn't used to selecting his own clothes. Ginny had always picked them out at the store and lain them out for him to put on in the morning.

"Uh huh. A likely story."

"Oh, haha, aren't you just the funny one," said Harry, coming more fully into the room. "Never mind all that. How come _you_ to be here?"

Draco didn't speak for a moment; he seemed now to be lost in a troubling thought, pacing the floor, his demeanor agitated. When he opened his mouth again it wasn't to address Harry's question, but to pose one of his own. "He's gone to the shop already, then, has he?" he asked, sighing as though this was a great calamity.

Harry confirmed that he had, and Draco uttered a quiet expletive and grumbled in frustration.

"This morning," said the blonde, "I visited my father. When I returned home, I discovered your friend Granger waiting for me in the foyer." The way he said 'your friend' made it seem like he was implying Harry was somehow to blame for Hermione's presence at Malfoy Manor, though his next words were: "She was there at Astoria's invitation, it seems, and informed me that my wife was lying abed upstairs after having suddenly collapsed! I _wanted_ to ask Severus to come early to examine her. I wanted to ask his help." The aspect of worry slipping from his countenance for a space, he glanced archly back at Harry. _"You_ may ask for me. He'll say yes to you, certainly; you were his _sleepover buddy_."

A frown formed on Harry's face. Malfoy sure had a strange sense of humor. When they had been children, Draco's jokes had tended toward the malicious, but these sly remarks Harry could not account for. "What's with all these insinuations? Are they supposed to be funny? Because they're not. Why would-"

Draco cut him off, sneering vaguely. "You really don't know, do you? Of course, it's not _painfully _obvious with Severus like it is with _some _men but-"

"Know what?" interposed Harry, not knowing what to make of anything Draco was saying.

"Potter," Draco drawled slowly and impatiently as though attempting to communicate with the most colossal dolt. He rolled his eyes. "Severus is gay."

Harry frowned slowly. Surely he had not heard that correctly. "I beg your pardon?" he asked with a small smile.

"Gay, Potter, I said he was gay," the other man reiterated tonelessly.

"Are-are you sure?"

"Quite sure, yes," said Draco dryly. "I've never once seen him look at a woman."

Harry had an explanation for this, however. One thing was for certain: whatever Draco may say, Snape couldn't possibly be gay, it didn't fit. "B-but my mum!" he stammered. "That's because of her! He was so deeply in love with my mother, that of course he could never have eyes for another woman!"

Draco gave him a look of disdainful pity. "Honestly, Potter, I can't believe you. No matter how besotted he was by your mother, how heartbroken by her demise, it would not have precluded his so much as noticing and appreciating an attractive woman. If he was straight. Which he most assuredly is not. I have heard it both from my father, and from Severus himself. The two things that my father considers his most charitable acts are his overlooking of Severus's homosexuality, and the flaw in my wife's bloodline." He strode past the dumbstruck Harry.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I am going to go seek Severus out at his shop."

Harry jumped up and followed Draco out automatically. "I'll come with you."

**BREAK!**

Snape, Glamoured as the man Harry'd seen when he'd shown up at the apothecary that first time, was standing over the counter at the front of his shop, a ledger opened before him, which he'd just turned his attention to after handing over a small bag to a customer- a squat man with a ruddy complexion and a headful of straw-coloured curls-and sending him on his way with a curt half-bow. After the man had exited the shop, the bell on the door chiming as he went, Malfoy cleared his throat loudly and Snape looked up again.

Catching sight of Harry and Draco in his doorway, he scowled darkly and ushered them to the back room. It was clear he was not happy to have them disrupting his workday, but Malfoy either did not notice or did not care, only forged ahead with quite a liberal dash of imperiousness, "Your presence is required at Malfoy Manor at your earliest possible convenience." Everything about Malfoy's tone and looks said that he cared nothing for conveniences, only that Snape hurry along to oblige him.

"It is _requested_, you mean to say. Surely you would never be so audacious as to say it is _required,_" his godfather commented airily. "You are enough of a Slytherin to know the chance of getting what you want is greatly increased when you phrase an appeal for a favor in a more courteous manner." But then he looked somber for a moment, and asked, with more consideration, "Is there an emergency?"

Draco harrumphed and looked shirty. "My wife would say not, but what would _you_ call her suddenly passing out and having to be levitated to bed? She came to, and declared herself only '_a little weak'_, but, when she attempted to stand- against my express wishes!- it was plain that she was as wobbly on her feet as a newborn Thestral."

"And how was she resting when you left her? Comfortably?"

"Comparatively. But she needs attention, Severus."

Snape gave a small, but definitive nod. "Very well. I shall accompany you to Malfoy Manor when I close up the shop for the luncheon hour."

**BREAK!**

"The insolence!" Snape seethed, stabbing his fillet of venison with such zeal that Harry almost felt sorry for the food. They were eating dinner together again, this time at a small pub in Scotland. Snape incognito as always, but the disguise he was currently donning lent him an exterior more like his own than the others Harry had seen him wear, complete with dark eyes and coincidentally pretty greasy black hair. He was rather taller than his normal height, though, with a better complexion, and the features of the man who he was pretending to be were rather more regular and classically proportioned than Snape's.

Harry was showing his true appearance tonight. He'd been to this little hole-in-the-wall located in an area of near wilderness on several occasions with the Scamanders, who made their home about five miles off, and he'd never been approached by people who recognized him in this Muggle establishment. "Who the blazes told you such a thing? And what earthly business is it of yours?"

Harry Potter, whose courage was as much vaunted as any renowned hero in Wizarding history, was too afraid to raise his gaze from his plate. He felt himself blush as he'd never had cause to in years. "'S not," he mumbled. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you." He ran a finger around the rim of his glass of beer, watching the digit's progress fixedly for a protracted moment before he risked lifting his head and making hesitant eye contact with the man sitting opposite him. "And Draco told me."

"I think you and Mr. Malfoy," Snape began, "had better not have anything more to do with each other if all you can find to discuss are the distinctly private matters of myself." He was plainly vexed, but his glare had lost some of its force.

That Snape was still not so far outwardly denying anything astonished Harry, and his intense curiosity saw to it that sufficient nerve started to return to him. He had to ask. There was no way he could not. "But it's true, then? I'm afraid I…don't understand, Professor. I thought you loved my mum, everything you did you did for her."

Snape's dark brown eyes, to the man's natural shade than some of his alter ego's, were piercing. "I did- I _do_- love your mother, Potter, but I wasn't _in love_ with her."

Harry continued to look at him doubtfully. This changed everything; or, it seemed to. When he'd viewed those memories two decades ago, he had thought that he understood. This new version of things set on its head an account that had become lore, not just for him, who venerated the brave Severus Snape and his everlasting loyal to his long lost love, but for the Wizarding populace at large, as well.

Snape spoke again: "You have the best chance of understanding, Mr. Potter, if you think about your relationship with Miss Granger- ah, as she was then. Now I should say Mrs. Weasley, should I not?"

"It's Granger-Weasley, actually," Harry informed him. "When Ron and Hermione were engaged, he told her that he wanted her to take his name and she let him know in no uncertain terms that she didn't believe in that. So she offered 'Granger-Weasley' as a kind of compromise. It wasn't enough to appease him at first, they had quite a big row over it, there was talk of the wedding being postponed. They patched things up quite in time, however."

"Fascinating," intoned Snape blandly. "But my point is that your mother, while by far the most exemplary example of a friend I've ever had, for the too-short time I had the immense pleasure of knowing her, was _not_ the object of any amorous affection from myself. Except perhaps during a brief period at the very start of my pubescent years before I understood my true…leanings."

"I would…enjoy…very much," murmured Harry, voice quivering a bit, "to hear some stories about her sometime."

Harry was taken aback to hear Snape say flatly to this, "No."

"'No?'" Harry echoed dumbly. He was confused, and waited for Snape to add a little something to that 'no', that ostensible refusal. A qualifier - 'We shall not talk about her _here_', or something.

"We shall not discuss your mother, Potter," said Snape gruffly, leaving no doubt as to what he'd meant. "At all."

"Why not?" exclaimed Harry, immediately frustrated, dropping his fork and letting it clatter noisily onto his plate. Snape winced at the noise, cleared his throat, adjusted the napkin he had tucked into his collar, and glanced away.

"She occupies my thoughts for no paltry amount of time each and every day," he said in a dark, clipped voice. "I see no reason why I need to speak those thoughts out loud."

"Because," Harry replied spiritedly, "you should _share_ them with someone. I- I think it would…do you some good."

"She was an extraordinary witch, and the best woman the world ever saw," said Snape shortly, lip curling menacingly.

"That's what I hear from everybody," Harry said disappointedly. "But you were her friend. Sirius and Remus were my dad's mates, mainly, and they had nothing but good things to say about my mum, but they didn't really know _her._ Just her in conjunction with my father, I mean. But you- you must have stories!

"You've had your glimpses already, in the memories I gave you. I gave you probably more than you needed. You've already been privy to a look much further inside our relationship than you deserve," Snape responded, leaning across the table, snarling at Harry. "Am I not allowed to keep something for myself? _Anything?_ Or must I give up all for you, Potter?" Ripples of enmity were coming off of Snape.

Harry was surprised by how soon he found himself becoming furious with the other man, really furious. "Do you think she would approve of how you're behaving? Hm?" Harry, in all his fit of combativeness that had so unexpectedly seized him, asked. "Denying her own son the chance to know her a bit better through you? And - and you wanna know something else that would've pissed her off? Do you think she'd have approved of how you treated me back at Hogwarts? Punishing the son for the sins of the father? Have you ever asked yourself that question, all these years you've been hiding out, soul-searching, or whatever the fuck you wanna call it? She loved me, sir. She died for me. And you were horrible to me. Merlin's sake, Professor," he muttered, "Didn't you disappoint her enough when she was alive?"

Snape's fingers dug aggressively into the wood of the table whilst he worked his jaw hard and his eyes shot poisonous darts at Harry. Perhaps before he was tempted to punch Harry, or hex at least him to the skies. He made a move to get up from the table, and Harry, acting fast, lunged forward and clamped a hand down over Snape's. The older man remained half-standing, and lowly ground out from betwixt scowling, barely-moving lips, "Unhand me, Mr. Potter."

That was all that he had to say. Harry removed his hand from Snape's rather than let things degenerate into a nasty spectacle right there in the middle of the bar. Thus, when Snape turned to leave, the younger man did not attempt to forestall him, but followed him outside.

"Only think-" said Harry as he trailed Snape down the lane, "-think about your reaction now, andthis small thing that I am asking-"

"_Cease this! I will not have it!_" Snape, colour draining from his face in rage, bellowed. "You will _not_ make me feel guilty, Harry Potter! You, who claims to be _so thankful _for what I have done, to sympathize with the horrendous plight which I endured for so many years! You do not think I deserve even to keep private, to allow to dwell in _my_ head and heart alone a few precious memories of the best friend I have ever known! You are not satisfied with the heap of sacrifices I have made that helped make it possible for you to still be of this world! You have the audacity to think I owe you even more! Your ego is insatiable!" His rant ended on a waspish rasp, his arms flying up into the air and gesticulating wildly, eyes smoldering.

"Right," Harry growled, swallowing, indignation and sadness making his throat burn. "Right. Well, I see we're only wasting each other's time. I'll just go, then."

**BREAK!**

Harry strode toward his back garden gate after Apparating just outside the boundaries of his property. The wards were set up there, and in such a way as would allow himself, members of his immediate family, as well as Ron, Hermione, the rest of the Weasleys, among a few select others, past automatically. Scarcely was Harry safely through than he spotted one of these other permitted persons standing on his lawn.

"Where the bloody hell have you been?"

"Nowhere." He brushed past the redhead to access the back door of the house. Had he not had been so very lately had such an ugly quarrel with Snape, Ron's presence at Godric's Hollow tonight would have made him feel optimistic about the future state of their friendship and anxious to hear what he had to say, and Harry would've been prompted to do whatever he could to ensure that Ron stayed long enough to resolve their current conflict. Just then, however, he wasn't sure he had the requisite energy to put into a proper reconciliation scene, nor that he would be able to feel fully, appropriately comforted by the mended fence while he was still so steamed and sad over the business with Snape. Though it could be Ron was there for an entirely different purpose than to mend fences.

Harry held open the door and stood back, inviting Ron into the house if he wished it, which apparently he did. Harry succeeded him inside, asking, "Is there anything particular that you wanted?"

"Just to say-" Ron sighed, seating himself on the edge of the settee gingerly, the two of them having reached the parlor. "Look, Harry, I-" He scratched at the back of his neck. "I take back everything I said before. Ginny always makes up her own mind about what she wants to do, and she made up her own mind to cheat on you, too. You didn't _make _her do it. It's not your fault. I'm sorry, mate."

This was rather more than Harry had bargained for; he had anticipated a lengthy discussion, or at least for Ron to beat around the bush before apologizing. "Really? What changed your mind?"

"Because…I think my wife might cheat on me, too!"

Harry stared in a stupor at Ron- the other man might just as well have uttered something in gibberish- and finally could only blurt out, breathless in his disbelief, "_What?"_

"'Mione…she….she's been spending an awful lot of time with this bloke at the Ministry, Mortimer Caulfield. She _says_ it's purely professional, but I'm not so sure. I mean, how am I supposed to believe that when-" Here he was cut short by Harry's sudden eruption of laughter.

The very notion of Hermione being unfaithful to Ron was just ridiculous. Harry had never known a more morally-upright woman, nor one who loved her husband so much.

"Yeah, mate, I don't think you have anything to worry about," he said not very compassionately, patting Ron perfunctorily on the shoulder before dropping into his favorite armchair.

"How do you know?" Ron challenged, indignant about having his theory laughed at.

"For Merlin's sake, don't you trust her, Ron?"

Ron shifted, looking a little abashed. "W-well, I mean…of course I trust her _in theory, _mate, I do, I really do, but it's j-just- it's just this guy! And how much time they've been spending together! And how many of Hermione's and my conversations he manages to come up in…sneak his way into…and it's always her that mentions him!"

"Ron," Harry cut him off. "Don't you think that Hermione is a smart enough woman to avoid talking about him constantly if she really _was_ having an affair, or planning on having an affair, with this guy?"

Now Ron looked even more stymied. "I think she's so smart she'd know enough not to avoid talking about him, so to make it seem like she's got nothing to hide!"

A quiet followed this pronouncement, during which Harry's lip twitched madly, and even Ron looked a little amused by his own comment.

"Aside from your paranoia and jealousy," began Harry, then laughed when he saw Ron's exaggeratedly affronted expression, "okay," he conceded, "aside from 'Mione mentioning this Caulfield bloke a dozen times a day…is there anything else wrong with your marriage?"

Ron didn't even have to think. "No. Not at all. We're very happy."

But Harry _did_ have to think, if only for the heartbeat it took for him to realize something, and for the first time, like a bolt from the blue. He and Ginny hadn't been. He'd always just assumed they were, because things were so…comfortable. And then they weren't even really that at the end. She had sensed the end approaching, and had fought against it, growing frustrated when the result of every valiant endeavor indicated that she was losing the battle. Harry had remained oblivious to the skirmish, but he'd felt the tension. And still he'd thought that things were workable. She'd finally confessed to having been unhappy for awhile, and he'd continued believing that everything was really fine, that their marriage was picture-perfect. But it hadn't been. His job wasn't the only stultifying influence in his life; his marriage was, too.

Ginny'd lost herself in being Mrs. Harry Potter. He'd lost himself in playing Mr. Family Man. And while he reveled in having a family, he needed another identity, too. And he needed to find a romantic love that inspired passion.

He'd finally gotten to a place where he wasn't so devastated that his marriage was over anymore.

**BREAK!**

Ginny thought it extremely perverse that Harry wanted to give up Godric's Hollow and sign the house over to her. He Owled her with the message a few days after he'd quarreled with Snape and made up with Ron, almost right after he came up with his plan, and in her reply message she made it crystal clear that she thought him a nutter. She was at a loss to understand just _why _Harry was so eager to dispose of the largest, most tangible piece of his parents' lives left to him, that he'd once been so hell-bent on making into his home. Although she confessed that she'd been this whole time staying with George and Angelina, having still not yet found a residence of her own to suit her, she refused flatly to take the offered ownership of Harry's parents' house. Harry didn't know that he could explain it satisfactorily to her, how if he was going to be able to move on in any meaningful way, he needed a 'clean break', like Ginny herself had talked of. Well, this was his first step toward making one.

The letters flew back and forth between them and at last she wrote back, in reluctant, but politely thankful language that if Harry was determined to relinquish Godric's Hollow no matter what, she may as well take it, so that the children could at least still have their childhood home.

Harry didn't have to hunt long for an alternative residence. Pretty quickly into the search process (one that, like most of Harry's doings these days, had to be conducted rather surreptitiously, as the press was still rabid about all things Potter at the moment) he happened to look at one a few miles from Ralph and Luna Scamander, at the latter's recommendation, in the Scottish countryside, and within a week of seeing the place, he found himself more or less comfortably installed in his new dwelling.

Hermione popped 'round to see him one afternoon with a housewarming gift of a flutterby bush. Harry showed her about his new place, listening to her ooh and ah about all the proper things and make polite inquiries about the different features of the place, and then after the tour they sat down to tea and biscuits.

But all the while it seemed that she had something weighing on her mind. Harry wasn't ordinarily the most perceptive person about such things, but such a pronounced quiet and aura of unease from such an extraordinarily good friend made it impossible that he should not notice. And so, after she'd been about half an hour in his sitting room, he felt compelled to ask her if anything was the matter.

She started, and blinked a few times, then blushed lightly and looked guilty. "Oh," she said through a sigh, then wrung her hands and began to speak quite rapidly: "As you haven't seen it, I shouldn't bring it up to you at all, only your children- they have to have heard about it, and I don't want you to be blindsided by it when they ask you questions, and- and also, I can't help wondering why-"

Harry groaned in exasperation. "Out with it already, Hermione!"

His friend looked at him, twisting her hands together nervously and biting her lower lip. At last, she pulled a folded up newspaper from inside of her cloak and pushing it at Harry's face cried, "What's all this about, Harry?"

Over the top of the paper Harry scowled at her, then irritably seized it from her hands. Okay, _The Daily Prophet_.

"Is it on the front page or..."

"Yes," she answered crisply, "Starts on the lower right-hand corner."

He checked where she had directed and found, to his dismay, this headline:

_**After Divorce, is Potter Having a Gay Old Time?**_

Harry's eyes widened in disbelief, and a sick feeling settled into the pit of his stomach as he began to read:

_Lovelorn savior of the wizarding world, Harry Potter [the unhappy news of whose split from wife Ginevra "Ginny" Potter (nee Weasley), former star player of the Hollyhead Harpies and past contributing reporter to this publication, after her extramarital affair with another woman, the Prophet broke exclusively last wee_k] _may have himself found comfort in the arms of a member of his own gender. Potter was spotted in a Scottish pub on Tuesday night in the company of an unknown male companion, supposed to be several years older than himself, and the two shared a very cozy hour there, a source reports. Sitting at a dark corner table- doubtless an attempt, albeit a vain one, to go unnoticed- at the quaint establishment, Potter and his friend were involved in heavy conversation over their "pint and a bite to eat", says the eyewitness. "They gazed intently at each other the entire time; they didn't seem to be able to take their eyes off each other!" And toward the end of the evening, Potter actually leant across the table to hold his male companion's hand! Our source adds, "Then they both got up to leave- they looked like they couldn't wait to get out of there." So now the question has been raised- was the seemingly-blissful domestic life Harry Potter and his wife had been living since the fall of Voldemort all a lie? (ctd. Pg. 2)_

Harry turned the page so violently that he ripped it.

_Was their apparently model marriage all a ruse designed to cover up their mutual homosexuality? This reporter can't say for certain, but it is an intriguing possibility. Mrs. Potter has declined making any formal statement on the breakup of her marriage, her alleged infidelity, and when asked about her ex's suspiciously intimate meeting with a mystery man at the pub she likewise retained her silence. Harry Potter could not be found for comment and is believed to be holed up at in undisclosed location and as of press time, the Head of the Auror Office has not been to his job for almost two weeks, multiple sources at the Ministery confirm, leading us to presume that he has taken a leave of absence. Hopefully he spends this time working out whatever he needs to work out._

Accompanying the article was a slightly-blurry magical photograph of Harry and a Glamour-ized Snape at the bar. Watching the enchanted image, Harry noticed that you couldn't make out either's face very well, but what was evident was the closeness of the conversation, and ostensibly, of the two men. He was a bit taken aback by the sense of familiarity it communicated to the outsider.

As he observed himself leaning across the table to clamp his hand over Snape's, his inability to clearly discern the expression on his own face or on Snape's led him to understand how others would view the photo. _They_ would never know how Harry had grasped his fellow diner's hand, not tenderly, but desperately, more out of a desire to keep him there and keep him talking than out of a desire for physical contact. And _they_ would never note that Snape wasn't looking back at his warmly, but rather cantankerously. It made Harry wonder if the picture's poor quality arose from an unsteady hand or if it was purposely bad in order to support the newspaper's "this was a romantic liaison" angle.

"Well, the kneazle's out of the bag now," he sighed. "I'm going to have to ask you to keep it quiet from everybody except Ron, Hermione, and tell him not to say anything, either. I was having dinner with Severus Snape."

"You mean this man claims he's Severus Snape and you believe him? Oh, Harry!" She bestowed upon him a gaze repute with pity.

"Don't _'oh, Harry' _me!" Harry blustered, "It is him, 'Mione! He knows things only Snape would know and he has the...the puncture wounds on his neck."

"Harry, he barely even _resembles_ Snape..."

"He's under a Glamour charm!" He'd known she'd react like this. No doubt Ron would, too, and anyone else who ever found out, forget that Snape hadn't authorized Harry to tell even his two best friends about his continued survival. "I promise you, it _is _Snape! Maybe you'll get to see for yourself, if he consents to it."

Hermione carried on staring at him, looking skeptical yet, but also a trifle breathless. "I...how is it possible?"

"It's a long story," grumbled Harry, making his way across the room to the liquor cabinet.

"Well, can't you 'make a long story short'?"

Harry Accio-ed a glass as he pulled a bottle of Firewhiskey from the cabinet. It flew toward him and he skillfully caught it is his free hand. He shrugged. "Actually, it's not that long. Turns out when we left him in the Shrieking Shack, he wasn't dead, only passed out. The Malfoys found him, on their way out of the castle grounds by way of the tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow, put a stasis charm on him, and took him with them to Paris. He lives in the north of France now, in a country village, he's been there for the past two decades. He runs an apothecary."

Hermione gawked at him, mouth wide open.

"You'll catch flies, 'Mione."

"Oh," she breathed. "Oh, it's unbelievable. We left him for dead, the poor man, if we had only known. What a dreadful thing! I mean, how great, how wonderful, it's fantastic that he's still alive, obviously, he deserved so much better than we all thought he got and oh, Harry!" She clasped her hands to her chest and looked at him with tear-glazed eyes. "oh, and that you've- you've been able to forge some kind of a bond with him, how-"

"I don't know if you could've called it a 'bond', even when we were speaking," muttered Harry regretfully.

Hermione eyed him shrewdly, with a healthy dose of admonishment, the same way he'd once seen her look at Hugo as she asked him where he'd hidden the keys to Daddy's car. "I imagine the professor must still be…er, a _difficult_ man to get on with, but did you by any chance happen to, well- say or do anything utterly _stupid_ to make him angry?" With her hands on her hips.

"No!" cried Harry, affronted. He proceeded to tell her how he had pressed their ex-professor for stories about Lily Evans Potter, and how Snape had reacted in such anger at the request. It made Harry ache a little to recount the story; he still didn't think he'd asked anything the least unreasonable of Snape. However, whether he was in the right wasn't the main point anymore. He just wanted them to be talking again. He'd Owled Snape with his new address, but had yet to hear back.

He didn't entirely understand just why the situation with Snape had him _so_ out of sorts. Although Harry always found it an awfully distressing thing to be on the outs with any of his friends, his friendship with Snape- if it wasn't an overstatement to attach the label of 'friendship' to the relationship- had been of very short duration. Surely anguishing over their row was a disproportionate response?

Perhaps it was because this friendship had been forged in the shadow of a marriage in breakdown mode, and to have it, too, come to an end left Harry feeling as though he had another enormous failure hanging over his life.

**BREAK!**

The next day, whilst Harry sat at the breakfast table, contemplating possible ways to make use of his day and determining that every one of them sounded boring, from the productive to the frivolous, a brown and beige long-earred owl with orange about its eyes tapped upon the little window above the kitchen sink. It turned up its beak at the treat Harry offered it, flying away in a manner that was somehow discernibly snooty after dropping a note upon the sill.

Its body was very brief, written in a spidery scrawl Harry'd not seen an example of in a long time, but which he immediately recognized:

_I am just down the road: will you see me?_

_-SS_

Harry blinked in surprise at the message, then shook his head and remarked aloud to himself, "How could he think otherwise?" He _Accio'd _his coat, and was out of the house in a tick.

"Hey!" The salutation came from Harry breathless and excited as he came running up to the figure which loitered at the end of the lane, where it forked off from the main road. When he had reached the man, Harry was surprised to see Snape hadn't utilized a Glamour. This seemed like a lapse, somehow, and as though to counteract it, Harry made his voice low as he uttered his next words. It was unlikely there was anyone thereabouts to overhear, but he did it automatically; it seemed as though Snape's sense of extreme caution had rubbed off on him. "Snape. Hello. So good to see you. You- I was very pleasantly surprised to receive your note."

The man bowed slightly. "Mr. Potter."

"Shall we take this conversation to my house? Whadaya say?"

Snape gave a dip of the head to signal his agreement, and they walked back down the road together.

They reached Harry's home, and Harry had to move through the gate at precisely the same time as Snape, holding onto the other man's arm so the wards would grant him right of entry. Upon entering the house, Snape gazed about himself quite dispassionately, as though the surroundings that he found himself in were precisely as uninspired as he would have expected from the home of a former idiot, Gryffindor student. He led Snape to the parlor, suggesting he have a seat in the wingback chair adjacent to the fire. Harry waited until his ex-professor looked comfortably situated in it before he plunked himself down in his armchair and awkwardly opened the conversation with, "Er...did you happen to see yesterday morning's _Prophet_?"

"I did. " A pause. "You feel grossly insulted by their insinuations, I am sure."

He was confused as to whether the comment had been subtle self pity or a shot at Harry's Snape-perceived arrogance. He decided it was probably a combination of the two. "I think I could scarcely feel more mortified than yourself," Harry returned, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"As you say," Snape agreed, his lip curling unpleasantly. "But you yourself cannot be completely unbothered by that article, Potter?"

Harry's expression suddenly darkened and he replied seriously, "It does. Bother me, I mean. For my children's sake. I must write to them tonight. You were generous before, calling what the _Prophet _said 'insinuations'. They were rather stronger than insinuations. I think the kids already feel betrayed, regardless of what they actually believe. After Ginny's and my breakup-which we didn't tell them about at first, didn't want to upset them until we knew the split was permanent…and the story about her and that woman…it's just like, how much _else_ have we kept from them, you know?" He gave a wry little laugh, then drew in a deep breath and let it out wearily. "I don't want to begin to imagine what their reactions were this morning, when someone invariably pointed the paper out to them. I guess by now they know they can't believe everything they read, but they used to be able to more or less trust the _Prophet_. I mean, Kingley's got way too much integrity to bribe them into running propaganda pieces like Fudge used to do. And whilst Ginny was working there, they didn't dare print any gossip about me or my family and risk losing the best Quidditch reporter they'd ever had. But...oh, it's that part about it all being a lie, Snape! My marriage wasn't a sham, and my devotion to my children isn't all for show! And...and I don't know, don't you figure they're probably a little embarrassed? Hermione said it wasn't a big deal in the Wizarding world to be...gay...but now…people are saying _both_ Ginny and I are, and…well..." he looked at Snape inquiringly.

Following this long dialogue of Harry's, there might have been something like sympathy in Snape's visage, but the older man still rolled his eyes before he answered, "No, it is not so much of a big deal as it is in the Muggle world. We are ever more enlightened than they are, in my opinion. Though there is no higher percentage of homosexuals in our world than in theirs, mind you. Doubtlessly you know a few- besides myself, I mean..."

"Charlie," Harry cut in, "Charlie Weasley."

Snape snorted. "You're not telling me anything. I once caught him with his hand down another boy's pants. He was behind the Quidditch stands, snogging the stuffing of some weedy little urchin whose name escapes me and... ah, well, that's not important. The point is that everyone knows a few- add Dumbledore to your list, by the way- but it's not exactly like every other person you see takes their pleasure with their own gender. It's still somewhat unusual."

"Dumbledore? Really?" exclaimed Harry, getting sidetracked by that part of Snape's speech, "We always reckoned he and Professor McGonagall..."

Snape snorted. "No indeed. More like he and Grindelward. I assume you read in Rita Skeeter's book that he had at one point been good friends with the very dark wizard he would one day defeat? Well, in reality they were _very _good friends."

"And Dumbledore told you all of this?" queried the younger man. A scandalous possibility occurred to him, a thought he really didn't wish to have, but chose to voice nonetheless, blurting out, "Oh my God, he never...you and he never..."

Snape looked at him like he was quite deranged. He made a noise of revulsion. "No! What the hell is wrong with you, Potter?"

Harry started giggling. It was so strange, so surreal, to be sitting here with Snape, in a fairly convivial mood, gossiping about mutual acquaintances. "I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me; _you_ were always able to come up with a few things."

"Well, when they stare one in the face…" Snape murmured dryly. "But then, I am an outside source. It is frequently a challenge to judge oneself clearly, although individuals will struggle with it to different degrees. It has been my personal experience that Gryffindors, in particular, find it an almost insurmountably hard endeavor."

Harry frowned. "Git," he muttered.

Snape smirked. "Well, charming though this visit has been, I really _must _be going."

"I'll see you out," Harry offered, getting to his feet and following Snape to the door. He opened it for the man, leaning back against it and remarking, "Seeing as I am currently on sabbatical, and planning on quitting when _that_ ends, I shall be at home quite often, until I get a brain wave and know what I want to be my next career." He smiled self-effacingly. "Stop by anytime you like, Severus."

Snape's shoulders tautened marginally. He looked at the young wizard with his face inexpressive but for one quirked eyebrow, and Harry felt himself blush a little.

Although he had debated whether he should call Snape by his first name, now it had flowed from his lips it sounded like the most natural thing in the world. Though his ex-professor looked surprised at being called such, he did not seem disgruntled.

"I _can _call you Severus, can't I?" asked Harry urgently.

"I suppose that would be permissible," the other man said a little stuffily, making Harry smile.

"Thank you." Harry said with a nod of the head, dignifiedly, but also with a warm, genuine gratefulness. "And you must call _me_ Harry."

"If you insist."

"I do," Harry affirmed, grinning, then vacillated. He had something he wanted to ask, but hesitated, not wanting to risk provoking Snape into high dudgeon again by doing something the older man might perceive as taking audacious liberties. Harry was most anxious not to lose what ground he felt they'd gained today. But after just another moment's reflection he judged that as Snape had already decide to give Harry the privilege of using the older man's first name, a decision that probably had not been made lightly, it probably wouldn't be rescinded whimsically, either, and in the end Harry couldn't help but let his curiosity get the better of him.

"What made you come here today?"

There was no reply for many seconds from a suddenly stiff and closed-off looking Snape.

"Severus?"

The older man answered slowly, as though desiring to be circumspect. "I suppose…I did not like leaving the air so unclear between us. It takes something away from the accomplishment of having overcome the aversion I had so long felt toward you if I allowed myself to slip right back into hating-you mode after all the time and work spent getting over it."

Harry didn't doubt the truth of that, but he believed it wasn't the _whole_ reason. At least, he _hoped_ it wasn't.

"I think you just like my company," he said, smiling pertly.

"_Your_ company? Yours?" Severus questioned, disparagement thick in his voice, but almost comically so. Harry saw something in those impassive, beetle black eyes that he'd never seen before: a touch of playfulness. Also, there was another quite pleasant discovery that when one was up close to Snape and the ex-professor was not Occluding, there were flecks of warm brown in them. But wait- had they always been standing so close together? Snape was edging ever closer by the second, with an air of not even realizing what he was doing.

"Perhaps for even a man so solitary as I, after twenty years of having only the Malfoys for semi-regular, intermittent company, some additional slight acquaintance to break up the monotony of the day is…desirable," he went on, looming even closer. Harry was beginning to feel strangely woozy, his heart pounding in his chest. "the most minor and trifling of acquaintances, of course."

And before Harry could even think what was happening, Snape's lips were on his own.

Harry would never have predicted his reaction to this (not that he had _ever_, even with all the crazy, twisted visions- awake and asleep- that his inexplicable life had given him, ever _once _imagined a scenario in which Snape grabbed him and kissed him). His eyes fell shut automatically and his pulse accelerated. He never would've expected his lips to tingle, his head to feel like it was floating. For his former teacher's - his former nemesis's - arms around him to feel so right and comforting and Snape's mouth, while not especially skillful, to have become the most compelling thing in the universe.

The kiss, however, did not make him lose track of time. Harry knew all too well that it was a very short amount of time before it ended- Snape being the one to break it off. Harry's eyes fluttered open, his head lolling back to rest in the crook of the other man's elbow. Involuntarily a whimpering sound escaped from his lips; he'd never known himself to whimper before in his life.

Snape wore an expression of utter bewilderment; his arm was barely enough to hold up Harry's head anymore as every muscle in his body seemed to slacken. His mouth was open slightly in disbelief of his own actions as Harry recovered enough of his equilibrium slowly move back one step, Snape's arm falling from around his shoulder. The man's face had fallen as well and he looked weak and regretful. Before Harry had time to do anything but register this, however, the air suddenly pressurized and depressurized and in the spot where Snape had been stood no one. He had gone. Disapperated.

_To be continued…_

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